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                        The World's Classics


                                CXIX

                         MARGARET CATCHPOLE

                                 BY

                          RICHARD COBBOLD




                        OXFORD: HORACE HART

                    PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

                          [Illustration]




                          [Illustration]

                            HISTORY OF
                             MARGARET
                            CATCHPOLE

                                BY

                         RICHARD COBBOLD




                         THE HISTORY OF
                       MARGARET CATCHPOLE

                         A SUFFOLK GIRL

                               BY
                        RICHARD COBBOLD

                     WITH AN INTRODUCTION
                      BY CLEMENT SHORTER

                        [Illustration]

                         HENRY FROWDE
                   OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
           LONDON, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE




                       Richard Cobbold




               Born, Ipswich                 1797
               Died               January 5, 1877

_'Margaret Catchpole' was first published in 1845. In 'The World's
Classics' it was first published in 1907 and reprinted in 1912._




INTRODUCTION


Three personalities interest us in reading the novel of _Margaret
Catchpole_--the author, the heroine, and the author's mother, in whose
service the real Margaret Catchpole was employed. Neither the author nor
his mother has been the subject of much biographical effort, although
Richard Cobbold was an industrious novelist, poet, and essayist for a
long period of years, and wrote this one book that will always, I think,
be read. His mother, Elizabeth Cobbold, made some reputation as a writer
of verse, and is immortalized for us in Charles Dickens's Mrs. Leo
Hunter. Fortunately we have a sketch of her by one Laetitia Jermyn,
dated 1825, and attached to a volume of _Poems_, published at Ipswich in
that year.[1] Laetitia Jermyn tells us that Elizabeth's maiden name was
Knipe, and that she was born in Watling Street, London, about 1764, her
father being Robert Knipe of Liverpool. In 1787 she published a little
volume of verse entitled _Six Narrative Poems_, which she dedicated to
Sir Joshua Reynolds, evidently by permission. It is clear that in
girlhood she had made the acquaintance of the great painter. Her
biographer says nothing about her being an actress, but it is a
tradition in Ipswich that this was for a time her profession. In 1790
she was married at Liverpool to William Clarke, a Portman of the
borough and Comptroller of the Customs of Ipswich, who was apparently
about sixty years of age and in very delicate health. The sprightly
young wife wrote the following lines to her husband on St. Valentine's
Day, soon after their marriage:--

     Eliza to William this Valentine sends,
     While ev'ry good wish on the present attends;
     And freely she writes, undisturb'd by a fear,
     Tho' prudes may look scornful, and libertines sneer.
     Tho' tatlers and tale-bearers smiling may say,
     "Your Geniuses always are out of the way,"
     Sure none but herself would such levities mix,
     With the seriousness suited to grave twenty-six.
     A Wife send a Valentine! Lord, what a whim!
     And then of all people to send it to him!
     Make love to her husband! my stars, how romantic!
     The Girl must be certainly foolish or frantic;
     But I always have thought so, else what could engage
     Her to marry a man who is twice her own age?
     While the tabbies are thus on my motives enlarging,
     My sentiments William may read in the margin.

     On the wings of old Time have three months past away
     Since I promis'd "to honour, to love, and obey,"
     And surely my William's own heart will allow
     That my conduct has ne'er disagreed with my vow.
     Would health spread her wings round my husband and lord,
     To his cheeks could the smiles of delight be restor'd;
     The blessing with gratitude I should receive,
     As the greatest that Mercy benignant could give;
     And heedless of all that conjecture may say,
     With praise would remember St. Valentine's day.

I quote this valentine at length because it is a fair sample of the
quality of our poet's efforts. At the end of the eighteenth century, and
far into the nineteenth, a rhyming faculty of this kind was quite
sufficient to make a literary reputation in an English provincial town,
and in the case of Mrs. Clarke it was followed up by the writing of a
novel, _The Sword_, published at Liverpool in 1791. It is interesting to
find the name of Roscoe the historian among the subscribers for this
book. In the same year--within six months of her marriage--the writer
lost her husband.

The interest of Elizabeth Knipe's life, however, begins for us when very
shortly after this she became the wife of John Cobbold, of the Cliff
Brewery, Ipswich. Cobbold was a widower. He had already had sixteen
children, of whom fourteen were then living. When it is remembered that
by his second wife he had six more children it will be seen that there
was a large family, and it is not surprising therefore that the Cobbold
name is still very much in evidence in Norfolk and Suffolk, and
particularly in Ipswich. "Placed in the bosom of this numerous family",
writes her biographer, "and indulged in the means of gratifying her
benevolent and liberal spirit, 'The Cliff' became the home of her
dearest affections, the residence of taste, and the scene of
hospitality." One need not complain of the lady that she was not very
much of a poet, for she had otherwise a versatile character. In addition
to being, as we are assured, a good housekeeper, she was, if her
self-portraiture be accepted, a worker in many fields:--

     A botanist one day, or grave antiquarian,
     Next morning a sempstress, or abecedarian;
     Now making a frock, and now marring a picture,
     Next conning a deep, philosophical lecture;
     At night at the play, or assisting to kill
     The time of the idlers with whist or quadrille;
     In cares or amusements still taking a part,
     Though science and friendship are nearest my heart.

Laetitia Jermyn tells us much about her charity and kindness of heart,
her zeal in behalf of many movements to help the poor, and she dwells
with enthusiasm upon her friend's literary achievements.[2] But the
scope of this Introduction to her son's book does not justify devoting
more attention to the mother, although her frequent appearance in
Margaret Catchpole's partially true story demands that something be said
about her "mistress". Elizabeth Cobbold died in 1824. Her husband
outlived her for eleven years. John Cobbold (1746-1835) traced back his
family in the direct line as landowners in Suffolk to a Robert Cobbold,
who died in 1603. He was a banker as well as a brewer, and lived first
at "The Cliff" and afterwards at "Holywells", which has ever since been
the seat of the head of the family. It was the fourteenth child of his
first marriage--Henry Gallant Cobbold--who was saved from drowning by
Margaret Catchpole.

It was Richard Cobbold, one of the six sons of the second marriage of
John Cobbold, who was the author of this story. When he was born he had
ten nephews and nieces awaiting him, the children of his brothers and
sisters of the first family, and he was at school with his own nephew,
who was just a fortnight younger than himself. The nephew was John
Chevallier Cobbold, who for twenty-one years represented Ipswich in
Parliament. For this information I am indebted to a grandson[3], who
also sends me the following anecdotes:--

     When John Cobbold--the father of twenty-two children--was High
     Sheriff, he once persuaded the Judge to come to dine with him on
     condition that there should be no one to meet him except his (J.
     C.'s) own family. When the Judge was shown into a drawing-room full
     of people, he was very angry, and said loudly before the company,
     "Mr. Cobbold, you have deceived me." Explanations followed, and the
     Judge was introduced to the various members of the family.

     Elizabeth Cobbold was in the habit of saying that when she married
     her husband she found no books in the house except Bibles and
     account-books.

     Brewing was such good business in those days that John Cobbold was
     able to give to each of his two youngest sons (twenty-first and
     twenty-second children) a University education, and to buy for each
     of them a church living worth £1,000 a year.

Richard Cobbold was educated at Bury St. Edmunds and at Caius College,
Cambridge, was destined for the Church, and when he married he was a
curate in Ipswich[4], but his father obtained for him the living of
Wortham, near Diss, where he was Rector from 1825 until his death in
1877. He was also rural dean of Hartismere. Several years after
celebrating his golden wedding--Dr. Spencer Cobbold informs me--he and
his wife died within a day or two of each other; the survivor did not
know the other was gone; both were buried at the same time. Of the three
sons who survived, one became Rector of Hollesley, another was the
father of the well-known amateur footballer, W. N. Cobbold, and the
third was the Fellow of the Royal Society, to whom I have already
referred, and to whose son I am indebted for so many interesting facts.

That Richard Cobbold was not particularly honoured in his own country
may be gathered from many quarters. One writer speaks of his "little
vanities, his amusing egotisms, and his good natured pomposity". It was
clearly not Suffolk that helped to make his fame, if we may accept one
of the few printed references to him that I have been able to find:--

     I confess I never knew a Suffolk man at home or abroad who would
     take any pride in being the fellow countryman of this clerical
     novel-writer; but in different parts of England I have seen reason
     to believe that our division of the eastern counties has a place in
     the minds of many thousands of people only by reason of the Rev.
     Richard Cobbold and his works, that the ancient town of Ipswich,
     which we hail from as if it were a niche in the temple of fame, has
     never been heard of except as the scene of some of the chief
     adventures of Margaret Catchpole.[5]

Other books are assigned to our author in the catalogues, but I doubt if
one of them survives other than _Margaret Catchpole_, which not only
survives, but is really a classic in its way. One story, indeed,
_Freston Tower_, held the public for a time almost as well as the
present book, but I imagine it has ceased to command the attention even
of the most remote village library, where indeed it was long ago worn
threadbare.[6] Essentially our author is a man of one book, and many
adventitious circumstances helped him here. It was no small thing that
the heroine should actually have been a native of the very district in
which the writer lived. She was not merely a vivid tradition of his
boyhood, but had been in the service of his mother and had stolen from
his father the horse that gave her so unpleasant a notoriety. Here was
a romance ready to hand, which needed but to be set down in passably
good writing to attract attention. It might have been worse written than
it was by this worthy clergyman and would still have secured readers.
How much is truth and how much is fiction in the story will never be
known. If Mr. Cobbold had an abundance of documents about this girl
Margaret Catchpole and her affairs, inherited from his parents, he must
have destroyed them. He claims in the course of the story that, as
Margaret three times saved the life of a member of Mr. Cobbold's family,
it is not surprising that the records of her life should be so strictly
preserved among them. But these records do not appear to exist any
longer. It is doubtful if they ever did exist. The author probably
worked from family traditions rather than from documents. He possessed,
in addition, a genuine imaginative faculty.

Such documents as do exist do not amount to enough to justify the
author's declaration that here is "a perfectly true narrative". Mr.
Frank Woolnough, of Ipswich[7], courteously informs me that a letter by
Margaret Catchpole, written only a few days before she sailed to
Australia, and the lyre bird that she sent to her mistress about a year
after her arrival, are the two curiosities of the Museum most eagerly
inquired after by strangers. Here is the letter in question:--

                                        ipswich May 25th 1801
                                           honred madam

     i am sorrey i have to inform you this Bad newes that i am going
     away on wedensday next or thursday at the Longest  so i hav taken
     the Liberty my good Ladey of trobling you with a few Lines as it
     will Be the Larst time i ever shall trobell you in this sorrofoll
     Confinement my sorrows are very grat to think i must Be Banished
     out of my owen Countreay and from all my Dearest friendes for ever
     it is very hard inded for any one to think on it and much moor for
     me to enduer the hardship of it honred madam i should Be very
     happey to see you on tuesday Befor i Leve englent if it is not to
     much trobbell for you for i am in grat confushon my self now my
     sorrowes are dobbled i must humbly Beg on your Goodness to Consider
     me a Littell trifell of monney it wold Be a very Grat Comfort to
     your poor

                                   unhappy searvent
                                        Margreat Catchpole

How small a matter a sentence of death for horse-stealing was counted in
the closing years of the eighteenth century may be gathered from the
fact that the contemporary newspaper report of 1797 runs only to five
lines, as follows:--

     "Margaret Catchpole, for stealing a coach horse, belonging to John
     Cobbold, Esq., of Ipswich (with whom she formerly lived as a
     servant), which she rode from thence to London in about 10 hours,
     dressed in man's apparel, and having there offered it for sale was
     detected."

Undoubtedly one of the characteristics of the book that give it so
permanent a place in literature is the circumstance that it preserves
for us a glimpse of the cruel criminal law of the eighteenth century.
Hanging for small offences went on for years after this, until, indeed,
public opinion was revolted by the case of the young married woman who
in Ludgate Hill lifted a piece of cloth from the counter. She hesitated
and then put it down again. But she had been seen, and was arrested,
tried, condemned, and hanged, although it was clearly proved that her
husband had been seized by a press-gang and that her babe cried for
bread. After this time came a reaction against the death penalty for
theft. Margaret, then, was more fortunate than that unhappy woman and
than the more celebrated Deacon Brodie, who was hanged in Edinburgh, the
city which he had adorned as a Councillor, for a house-breaking theft
which brought him four pounds or less. She doubtless owed her escape to
the powerful influence of the Cobbolds.[8]

_Margaret Catchpole_ is the classic novel of Suffolk. That county of
soothing landscape and bracing sea has produced greater books; it has
given us more interesting authors than Richard Cobbold. Within its
borders were written the many fine poems of George Crabbe, the many
attractive letters of Edward Fitz Gerald. The remarkable paraphrase from
the Persian known to all the English speaking world as _The Rubáiyát of
Omar Khayyám_ was composed here. But, although many latter-day novelists
have laid their scenes in these pleasant places, made memorable by the
art of Constable, not one has secured so fascinating a topic or so
world-wide an audience. Margaret Catchpole is one of the few heroines of
fiction of whom one loves to remember that she was real flesh and blood.

                                             CLEMENT SHORTER.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: _Poems by Mrs. Elizabeth Cobbold, with a Memoir of the
Author._ Ipswich: Printed and sold by J. Raw in the Butter Market,
1825.]

[Footnote 2: The three most talked of books by Elizabeth Cobbold
were:--_The Mince Pye_, an Heroic Epistle, humbly addressed to the
Sovereign Dainty of a British Feast, by Caroline Petty Pasty, 1800.
_Cliff Valentines_, 1813. _An Ode to the Victory of Waterloo_, 1815. The
suggestion is made in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ that she
was descended on the mother's side from Edmund Waller the poet, but this
is exceedingly improbable.]

[Footnote 3: Dr. Spencer Cobbold, of Batheston, Somerset, a grandson of
Richard Cobbold, and the son of T. Spencer Cobbold, M.D. (1828-1886),
the distinguished helminthologist, who was the youngest F.R.S. of his
day. He had made some original investigations concerning Entozoa, and
was the author of many books on "Parasites" and kindred subjects.]

[Footnote 4: At the Tower Church. He lived at St. Margaret's Green.]

[Footnote 5: _Public Men of Ipswich and East Suffolk_, by Richard
Gowing. Ipswich: W. J. Scopes, 1875.]

[Footnote 6: The following books by Richard Cobbold are in the British
Museum Library:--

  _Valentine Verses, or Lines of Truth, Love, and Virtue_      1827

  _A Sermon on Matthew xiv_                                    1829

  _The Spirit of the Litany of the Church of England._
  A Poem                                                       1833

  _The History of Margaret Catchpole, a Suffolk Girl._
  2 vols.                                                      1845

  _Mary Anne Wellington. A Soldier's Daughter,
  Wife and Widow._ 3 vols.                                     1846

  _Zenon the Martyr._ 3 vols.                                  1847

  _The Young Man's Home, or The Penitent's Return_             1848

  _The Character of Woman._ A Lecture                          1848

  _A Voice from the Mount_                                     1848

  _A Sermon on Genesis i. 3_                                   1849

  _Conversations between J. Rye and Mr. Parr_                  1848

  _The Comforter, or Short Addresses from the Book of
  Job_                                                         1850

  _A Father's Legacy._ The Proverbs of Solomon in
  Prose and Verse                                              1850

  _Freston Tower, or The Early Days of Cardinal
  Wolsey._ 3 vols.                                             1850

  _Courtland_: a Novel. By the Daughter of Mary
  Anne Wellington. 3 vols.                                     1852

  _The Union Child's Belief_                                   1855

  _J. H. Steggall. A Real History of a Suffolk Man_            1857

  _Canticles of Life_                                          1858
]

[Footnote 7: The Secretary of the Borough of Ipswich Museum and Free
Library.]

[Footnote 8: The punishment of death for horse-stealing was abolished in
1832, but in 1833 a little boy of nine who pushed a stick through a
cracked window and pulled out some painters' colours worth twopence was
sentenced to death. Since 1838 no person has been hanged in England for
any offence other than murder. See Spencer Walpole's _History of England
from the Conclusion of the Great War in 1815_.]




CONTENTS


                                                    PAGE

    DEDICATION                                      xvii

    AUTHOR'S PREFACE                                 xix

    CHAPTER

         I. EARLY SCENES                               1

        II. THE TEMPTATION                            26

       III. MISFORTUNES                               34

        IV. DECEIT                                    47

         V. WILD SCENES                               56

        VI. HARVEST-HOME                              71

       VII. THE CONFLICT                              83

      VIII. DISAPPOINTMENT                           100

        IX. EVIL WAYS                                115

         X. THE PARTING                              120

        XI. THE LAST INTERVIEW                       131

       XII. THE WELCOME VISIT                        137

      XIII. POVERTY AND PRIDE                        152

       XIV. A CHEERFUL CHANGE                        166

        XV. THE NEW PLACE                            175

       XVI. BRIGHT HOPES                             187

      XVII. ALTERCATION AND EXPLANATION              191

     XVIII. THE RECONCILIATION                       197

       XIX. THE ALTERATION                           206

        XX. CHANGE OF SCENE AND CHANGE OF PLACE      219

       XXI. GUILT AND CRIME                          244

      XXII. PREPARATION FOR TRIAL                    268

     XXIII. TRIAL AND CONDEMNATION TO DEATH          277

      XXIV. THE REPRIEVE AND REMOVAL                 290

       XXV. THE ESCAPE                               297

      XXVI. PURSUIT AND CAPTURE                      309

     XXVII. SECOND TRIAL, AND SECOND TIME
               CONDEMNED TO DEATH                    317

    XXVIII. TRANSPORTATION                           338

      XXIX. BANISHMENT                               351

       XXX. REPENTANCE AND AMENDMENT                 370

      XXXI. CONCLUSION                               407

            SUPPLEMENT BY THE AUTHOR, A.D. 1858      413




                                  TO

                     THE MARCHIONESS OF CORNWALLIS


     Most Noble Lady,

     Assured that this simple narrative, the most remarkable events of
     which are still fresh in your Ladyship's memory, will be found far
     more interesting to the public than many highly-wrought works of
     fiction, and that to none will it prove more acceptable than to
     your Ladyship, who for many years resided in this county, beloved
     and respected by all who knew you, for the encouragement you
     afforded to every amiable virtue; to you it is dedicated, with
     sincere respect, by your Ladyship's humble and devoted servant,

                                        RICHARD COBBOLD.

     _Rectory, Wortham, near Diss, Suffolk._




AUTHOR'S PREFACE


Independently of this simple history being a relation of facts, well
known to many persons of the highest respectability still living in the
county of Suffolk, it is hoped that an instructive lesson may be
conveyed by it to many, who may not yet have seen the necessity of early
and religious instruction.

These pages will prove, in a remarkable manner, that, however great may
be the natural endowments of the human mind, yet, without the culture of
religious principles, and the constant discipline of the Holy Spirit,
they will never enable their possessor to resist the temptations of
passion, but will be as likely to lead to great crimes as to great
virtues.

It will be seen that, from the want alone of the early impressions of
religion, the heroine of these pages fell into errors of temper and
passion, which led to the violation of the laws of God and man; but
that, after the inculcation of Christian faith and virtue, she became
conspicuous for the sincerity of her reformation and for an exemplary
life: that, though it pleased God to grant her 'a place of repentance',
yet it was through such bitter sorrows and sufferings of mind and body
as she most devoutly desired others might be spared.

The public may depend upon the truth of the main features of this
narrative: indeed, most of the facts recorded were matters of public
notoriety at the time of their occurrence. The author who here details
them is a son of the lady with whom this extraordinary female lived, and
from whose hands he received the letters and the facts here given. He is
persuaded that much will be found in the history of Margaret Catchpole
highly worthy of praise and imitation; and, if that which is unworthy
shall only be taken as a warning example, he humbly hopes that the
public will be both gratified and benefited by the publication.

_Rectory, Wortham._




                            THE HISTORY

                                OF

                         MARGARET CATCHPOLE




CHAPTER I

EARLY SCENES


The heroine of this romantic but perfectly true narrative was born in
the year 1773. There was a large tract of extra-parochial land toward
the north of the bounds of the parish of Nacton, Suffolk, reaching from
Rushmere Heath down to the banks of the beautiful river Orwell. This
tract was known by the name of Wolfkettel, and commenced at the Seven
Hills, and terminated on the south side of Alneshbourne Priory.

The spot called the Seven Hills, though originally there were sixteen,
was, in all probability, the site of the famous battle of Arwell, fought
between the Earl of Ulfketel and the Danes, in A.D. 1010. It was a wild
waste, and a great part of it to this day remains much in the same
state, fit only for sheepwalks or a warren, or as a preserve for game.
The tract lying nearest to the Orwell was very early brought into
cultivation; and at the time this narrative commences, was famous for
the production of the best barley in the county. In a cottage on these
lands lived Jonathan Catchpole, an industrious labourer, and father of
six children, of whom Margaret was the second daughter, and youngest
child but one.

The farm upon which the father and his sons worked was then held by Mr.
Denton, who was well known for his famous Suffolk cart-horses--strong
bone, short joints, clean legs, stout chests, high crests, light
chestnut, with silvery manes, and tails that ought to have swept the
ground, but for a barbarous custom of docking them at that period, one
of the most insane fashions of the day.

Jonathan Catchpole had a team of these horses to look after, and was the
head ploughman on the estate. His boys were engaged in various parts of
the farm.

The youngest daughter was made a sort of pet by the rest of the family;
and, as the eldest girl was always of a sickly constitution, it fell to
the lot of Margaret to carry her father's and brothers' meals to them in
the field.

Who has not seen the healthy face of childhood in those ever interesting
years when activity commences? And what philanthropist, delighting in
scenes of genuine simplicity and nature, could fail to admire the ruddy
glow of youth, and the elastic step of confidence, with which the young
female peasant bounds to meet a parent or a brother, at the welcome hour
of noon, bearing the frugal dinner of bread and cheese, or it may
sometimes chance to be bread and pork?

The child becomes of some consequence, entrusted with the basket of
provision; and, as she stands against the bank of the hedgerow, watching
the progressive march of the horses as they come toward her, drawing the
plough and turning over the soil, guided as they are by the steady hand
of her father, she presents a picture worthy of observation.

On these occasions, Margaret was as punctual to her hour as the sun. On
reaching the field she would set her basket down and jump into her
father's arms, and kiss his warm forehead, and receive in return a
reward, which even in infancy gave her the utmost delight, viz. a seat
upon one of the horses' backs, and there she would remain until she was
taken off by the same hands which placed her there, and gave her the
empty basket to carry home.

"May I come in the evening, father?" she used to say, as she looked
wistfully round the horizon, to see if any appearance of rain forebode
an unfavourable answer; for this request "to come in the evening"
contained an imaginative delight, exceeding in its kind the prospect of
the fox hunter for a coming run. For Margaret, when she did "come in the
evening," used to have the privilege of riding home one of the
plough-horses.

This was a singular _penchant_ for a female child to imbibe, but with it
mingled the pleasure of her father's and brothers' smiles; and this,
after a day of toil, seemed to give elasticity to their spirits, and
formed an agreeable change to the unvarying monotony of ploughing
straight lines, the clinking of chains, and their rural "_wooah come
ather, woree, wooo, jeh!_" sounds as unintelligible to some readers as
the language of the savages of the Caribbee islands, when first
discovered.

Sometimes the crack of the whip would make the horses start, and the
young men, her brothers, who would try to frighten their sister, found,
instead of so doing, that it only increased the pleasure of her ride. At
length, she began to trot the leading horse home.

After a time, this privilege was extended to riding the farm-horses down
to water; and this appears to have been the very summit of Margaret's
delight. She used to take her brother's whip in her tiny hand, drive the
whole team before her into the water, keep them in order while there,
and then drive them out again, up the sandy lane, into the stable-yard.

It is well known that at such times it is no easy task to sit a
cart-horse; for they will kick, and plunge, and exhibit that rough kind
of amusement known by the name of "horse-play," which has as much of
shrieking and biting as it has of gambolling in it.

In going out to, and coming home from, water, horses accustomed to the
heaviest labour, if at all well fed, will exhibit no mean share of this
species of spirit; and woe be to the lad without a whip in his hand, or
who has not a very steady seat!

Gainsborough and Constable were both lovers of the scenery around
Ipswich; and many are the sketches in the possession of their Suffolk
friends, which speak their admiration of the beautiful landscapes which
surround the river Orwell.

Had these artists seen Margaret in her equestrian character, they would
have immortalized her; for nothing could have been more appropriate to
the spirit of their works.

Margaret was fearless as a Newmarket jockey; and never was known to have
had a single fall. She kept her seat as well as any of the tutored
children of the celebrated but unfortunate Ducrow: indeed, it may be
fairly questioned if any one of his troop could have managed to sit a
Suffolk cart-horse with the same composure.

The fame of our young heroine's exploits reached but little farther than
the sequestered farm-house to which her parents belonged, excepting now
and then at the Ipswich races, when some of the lads saw an awkward
rider, they would exclaim to each other, "Margaret would beat him
hollow."

Time flew swiftly on, producing no farther change in the family of the
Catchpoles than what may be usually seen in the habitations of the
labouring class. Those are generally the most stationary race of all
people in a parish, who have constant employment on a large farm: the
owners of lands change their places of abode--sell their estates--and
leave the country; the tenants frequently change their occupations; but
the labourer remains to cultivate the soil, and is always found a
resident among those "_poor who shall never perish out of the land_."
They have their friends and fellow-labourers, and feel as much interest
in each other's welfare as the members of richer or wider-spread
fraternities.

The Catchpoles and the Cracknells were two families that principally
worked upon the lands of Mr. Denton. Their houses were indeed widely
separated; but as their labours were in the same field, their occasions
of meeting were frequent, their intimacy became strict, and they were of
mutual assistance to each other. One lived near the street at Nacton,
and the other upon the farm; so that whenever there was any occasion to
go to Nacton, the Catchpoles always had a friend's house to call at, and
the Cracknells were as constantly using the Catchpoles' cottage at the
entrance of the lane leading down to the farm-house.

This intimacy was productive of especial accommodation on the
Sabbath-day; for the Catchpoles, being at a great distance from church,
they made use of the Cracknells' cottage, near the street, and used to
carry their meals there, with the view of attending the church service
twice on that day.

At that time, education was not so widely spread as it is now; and the
particular spot in which this labourer's cottage stood being
extra-parochial, they had to seek what little instruction they could
obtain from the neighbouring parish of Nacton. The Reverend Mr. Hewitt
was as attentive to his people as he could be, and was much assisted in
his duties by the family of Admiral Vernon, who at that time lived at
Orwell Park, and by Philip Broke, Esq., the great landlord of that
district, and the father of our deeply-lamented and gallant Suffolk
hero, Sir Philip Broke. But education was not considered then so great a
desideratum as it is now, though the pious wish of England's patriarchal
sovereign, George III, "that every cottager might have a Bible, and be
able to read it," was nobly responded to through every densely-peopled
district in his kingdom.

The Catchpoles were not an irreligious family, though they could none of
them read or write. They were not ignorant, though they were uneducated.
The father always repeated aloud the Lord's Prayer every night before
his family retired to rest, and the first thing before they went to
their work in the morning. They were generally respected by their master
and mistress, their friends and acquaintance. They were a
well-conducted, orderly family, and were united in love as dearly as
those who had the greater zest of education and cultivation to heighten
their domestic affections.

Margaret grew up to her thirteenth year, a fine, active, intelligent
girl. She had a brother younger than herself by five or six years, of
whom she was very fond, from having nursed him during the occasional
absence of her mother. Her elder sister was always, as we have stated,
of a sickly constitution, and very delicate: she had very little bodily
strength, but she had learned to knit and to sew, and in these things
she excelled, and was the sempstress of the whole family. She was of a
sweet temper, so gentle, so affectionate, and so quiet, that, though a
complete contrast to her sister, she nevertheless maintained a just
ascendancy over the high spirit of Margaret, which was always curbed by
any quiet reproof from the calm wisdom of the invalid.

We have seen something of Margaret's infant spirit: we must now record a
simple fact of her childhood, which exhibits a singular instance of
intrepidity and presence of mind in a child not yet fourteen years old.

It chanced that her mother one day sent her down to the farm-house to
ask for a little broth, which had been promised by Mrs. Denton, her
mistress, for poor Susan. Her father and her brothers were all at work
on a distant part of the farm; and, being harvest-time, master and man
were every one engaged. When Margaret arrived at the gate, she heard a
shriek from a female in the house, and in another minute she was in the
kitchen, where the mistress of the house had suddenly fallen down in a
fit. In one moment the girl of fourteen exhibited a character which
showed the powerful impetus of a strong mind. The two girls in the house
were shrieking with fright over their fallen mistress, and were
incapable of rendering the least assistance. They stood wringing their
hands and stamping their feet, and exclaiming, "Oh, my mistress is
dead!--Oh, my mistress is dead!"

"She is not dead!" said Margaret; "she is not dead! Don't stand
blubbering there, but get some cold water; lift up her head, untie her
cap, loose her gown, and raise her into the chair." Not waiting to see
how her words were taken, she did the work herself, and caused the
others to help her. She used the water freely, and gave the chest full
play, dragged the chair toward the door, sent one of the girls for some
vinegar, and made the other rub her hands and feet; and did not slacken
her attention until she saw some symptoms of returning animation. When
the breathing became more composed, and the extremities more sensitive,
she sent off one of the girls to the harvest-field for help; and telling
the servant-girl that she was going for Dr. Stebbing, she went to the
stable, unslipped the knot by which the pony was tied to the rack; and,
with only the halter in her hand, without saddle or bridle, she sprang
upon the fiery little Suffolk Punch, snapped her fingers instead of a
whip, and was up the sandy lane, and on to the high road to Ipswich,
before the other girl was fairly across the first field towards her
master. She did not stop even to tell her mother where she was going,
but dashed past the cottage.

On she went, and well had she her own wishes answered by the fiery
little animal she bestrode. Her heart was up, and so was the pony's,
who, feeling a light weight upon his back, and a tight seat over his
ribs, gave full play to his lungs and legs, and answered to her heart's
content the snap of the finger for expedition. Those who beheld the
animal would be astonished, and ask where all the speed could be. But
speed there was in his strong and well-knit limbs. So close was he put
together, that his action was almost like a ball bounding down the side
of Malvern hills. Nothing seemed to check the speed of Margaret or her
steed. She passed every cart jogging on to Ipswich market, without
taking any notice of the drivers, though she knew many of them well. Her
mistress and the doctor were the only things in her mind's eye at this
time, and they were four miles asunder, and the sooner she could bring
them together the better. She even met Admiral Vernon's carriage just as
she turned on to the Ipswich race-course, at the part now called Nacton
Corner. The Admiral's attention was called to the extraordinary sight of
a female child astride a pony at full speed, with nothing but a halter
over his head, and that held as loosely as if the rider wished to go at
full speed. The servants called to the child, even the Admiral was
sufficiently excited to do the same; but he might as well have attempted
to stop a vessel in full sail, with a strong and favourable wind.

Away she dashed, regardless of any impediment. She passed one young
farmer from Stratton Hall, who rode what might be termed a high-bred
horse. It was a noble turf, and an open course; and the young man, as
much astonished as if it were an apparition before him, though convinced
that it was flesh and blood, stuck his spurs into his charger's side,
and gave him his rein with the full determination to overtake her. But
this was not so easy a task as he anticipated. The little nag, hearing
the clank of heels behind him, turned his head first on one side, then
on the other; and, lifting up his nose like a stag, darted onward with
redoubled speed. Not Mazeppa with more sudden bound could have sprung
forward with more spirit than this wild little home-bred nag did down
the wide turf of the race-course. The youth called aloud to know what
was the matter, but Margaret heeded him not; and long before she reached
the stewards' stand, she had fairly distanced the young squire of
Stratton Hall. At length she reached the end of the race-course, and
came on to the common of Bishop's Hill. It is a very deep descent down
that hill to the town of Ipswich, which from its summit seems to lie at
the very bottom of an extensive pit. But it is a noble expanse that lies
before the spectator upon that eminence. The beautiful river flowing to
the left, and forming an expanded semicircle bordering the town, and the
distant country rising with amphitheatric grandeur beyond the barracks,
and above the towers of twelve churches, might induce even a hasty
traveller to pause and look upon that sight. But Margaret did not pause.
Down she dashed from the verge of the hill into the very thickest part
of the back hamlet of St. Clement's. It was market-day, and scores of
pig-carts, and carriers' vans, and waggons, stood on one side of the
road, taking up nearly half the street. But on through them all at full
speed dashed the intrepid girl. From every house people rushed to see
the sight--a girl, with her bonnet hanging down behind her, and going
like lightning through the crowded thoroughfare, was an extraordinary
sight.

People gave way as she rode fearlessly on, and followed her up St.
Clement's Fore Street, over the stone pavement across the wash into
Orwell Place, where lived the ever humane though eccentric surgeon, Mr.
George Stebbing. But not until she reached his very door did Margaret
give the first check to the pony.

A passing spectator, who was at the moment opposite the surgeon's door,
with an instinctive thought of her errand, gave a violent ring at the
surgery-bell, and received such a joyous "Thank you, sir," from the
child, that he stopped to see the result.

By this time the street was full of spectators, all anxious to know what
was the matter; but Margaret's eye was fixed upon the door, and the very
moment it was opened and the doctor himself appeared, she exclaimed,
"Oh, come to my mistress, sir, directly!--come to my mistress!"

The gentleman who had rung the bell was Mr. Nathaniel Southgate, of
Great Bealings, a rich and excellent agriculturist, and an acquaintance
of the doctor's. Having followed him into the surgery, and there learnt
the feat the child had performed, he at once resolved to take her into
his own service; and he gave her a crown as a present, telling her, if
she was a good girl she should come and live with him. With the former
communication, Margaret, as might be supposed, was not a little pleased;
but upon the latter she put a very grave face.

The doctor's gig being by this time ready at the door, he placed
Margaret beside him, and started for the farm, chatting by the way about
her poor sister Susan, whom she asked the doctor to visit as he returned
from the farm. Once only did she seem to reflect in an unfavourable
manner upon the act she had done, and said to the doctor, "I hope, sir,
if my master should be angry at my taking the pony, you will beg of him
to forgive me."

On arriving at the farm, the doctor found that the mistress of the house
was much better; and he then learned from the servant-girls, that, but
for little Margaret's presence of mind and activity, the apoplectic fit
might have terminated fatally.

Having given the needful instructions as to the treatment of the
invalid, the doctor once more took Margaret in his gig, and drove to the
cottage; where having visited and prescribed for poor Susan, he took
leave of the grateful family by telling Margaret, that if ever she stood
in need of a friend to help her, she had only to "post off again for the
doctor."

Numerous were the inquiries concerning Margaret and her expedition, and
she found herself, much to her surprise and chagrin, extolled for her
horsewomanship. She began, therefore, to be shy of riding the horses at
the farm; and modesty told her, now that her fame began to spread, there
was something bold and conspicuous in her former pleasures of this kind.
So sensitive was she upon this point, that she avoided as much as
possible all allusion to her past habits, and for the future carefully
avoided the horse-yard and the horses. Her father and brothers observed
this, and would sometimes say, "Peggy, you will soon forget how to
ride."

"The sooner the better," she would reply, "if I am to have people
staring at me as they now do."

Susan perceived with satisfaction that Margaret, instead of being vain,
and puffed up with the notice of the world, was quite the reverse.
Numbers might have risen in their own opinion, and have been giddy from
the continual praises of one and another; but in this case it became a
subject of annoyance rather than of congratulation, and her sister began
to fear, from finding her so much more occupied in the house, and
especially for herself, that Margaret's health would suffer.

It was with some degree of satisfaction that an opportunity was soon
afforded for a change of place and action for her sister. Her uncle
Catchpole came expressly from Mr. Nathaniel Southgate, of Great
Bealings, to treat with her parents about Margaret's going to service;
and matters were so speedily arranged, agreeably to all parties, that
she was to accompany her uncle on his return home. All seemed to think
it a good thing for the girl; even she herself, though quite new to the
work of a dairymaid, thought she should thus escape the unpleasant
observation she had been subject to. This accounted for the readiness
with which she complied with her uncle's advice.

When, however, the hour of departure came, never perhaps did a
cottage-girl leave home with a heavier heart: tears, unrestrained tears,
ran in an honest current over her young face. Oh, how Margaret loved her
poor sick sister! how deeply she felt the grief of leaving her! nor
would she consent to leave her, except under the faithful promise that
her father, or one of her brothers, would frequently come and see her,
and bring her word of Susan's health.

"Dear sister," she said to Susan, "dear sister, if you should be worse,
oh, do let me come and nurse you! I love to wait upon you, I feel so
happy to see you smile."

"God bless you, dear little Peggy!" was the reply. "God bless you! Mind
and be a good girl, and take pains to do your duty well. Charles, or
John, and sometimes little Ned, will walk over to Bealings. I will send
for you if I am worse, for I too love to have you near me; but it is
best for us both that we should be parted for a time, and especially for
you, as you can learn nothing more at home."

The kiss of filial and parental and brotherly and sisterly love was
given through many tears, and the little Margaret departed for her first
place.

She went with a high character from home, and to a place where that good
character had preceded her, in the estimation of the gentleman who so
promptly rang the bell for her at the doctor's door. She stayed a day or
two with her uncle in the cottage in which she was born, and then
entered into the service of Mr. Nathaniel Southgate. At her very first
interview with her new master, she begged of him never to talk about her
riding the pony, and as much as possible to prevent others speaking of
it. This very much raised her in the good opinion of her master and
mistress, for they had some fears lest she might be too fond of riding
to mind her work. They found her, however, completely cured of this
propensity, nor could she be induced, in a new and strange place, ever
to mount a horse or pony.

How seldom does public praise make mortals shy! yet where true modesty
prevails this is found to be the case. It speaks highly for this young
girl, who, from an innate distaste to notoriety, shunned a habit which
had once been a prevailing pleasure, and in which, till the world spoke
loudly of her merit, she felt no degree of shame. How singular that such
a being should ever become so conspicuous, as she afterwards did, in
that very line which she now so sedulously avoided! Well may we all say,
"We know not what manner of spirit we are of."

In the situation which Margaret first occupied, her mistress found her
all that she required--she was very apt at learning to do her work, very
diligent in the performance of it, and always gave satisfaction. She had
plenty of employment, and was stirring with the lark; soon understood
the accustomed duties of a dairywoman, and was always praised for
cleanliness and good conduct.

A year passed away rapidly. Margaret, at fifteen years of age, was as
tall as she was afterwards at twenty; she was strong, too, though slim.
One year makes a great difference in a female at that age--some are
almost women at sixteen, when boys are, generally speaking, awkward
clowns. She went to service before she had completed her fourteenth
year.

Margaret remained a year and a half at Bealings, remarkable for the
strict propriety of her behaviour, and for the cheerfulness of her
disposition. She had stipulated with her mistress that, in case of her
sister's death, or of her requiring her aid at the near approach
thereto, she should have full permission to leave. It was on this
account that, in the Whitsuntide following, she left her situation, and
went to attend her poor sister.

Susan, who was then in her twentieth year, had lingered on, gradually
getting weaker and weaker, until she was quite unable to rise from her
bed. Her heart always yearned towards her sister; and, as she had
promised to let her be with her during her few last days, and she
herself thought those days were almost numbered, she now sought her
assistance. Margaret's affection answered the sister's call, and she was
ready to place all her earnings and all her labours at that sick
sister's service. She hesitated not; but, taking a respectful and
grateful leave of the family at Bealings, she was, at Whitsuntide, again
an inmate of her father's house.

It has been stated, some few pages back, that between the Catchpoles and
Cracknells, as labourers upon the same farm, there existed a close
intimacy: it was Whitsuntide, and Mrs. Cracknell's baby was to be
christened. Poor Susan was to have been one of the sponsors, and the
child to be named after her; but "poor Susan was laid on her pillow,"
and could not answer to the call of her neighbour in any other way than
by her prayers. Margaret was therefore asked to take Susan's place,
which she consented to do, and went early to Nacton, to render what
assistance she might be able to give in the celebration of this event.

Neighbour Cracknell kept a little shop of such goods as might be
obtained at the large, red-bricked, coffin-shaped house of Mr. Simon
Baker, grocer, St. Clement's Street, Ipswich. This shop divided the fore
and back hamlets of St. Clement's, and was the first from the Nacton
Road, entering upon the pavement of the town. Master Cracknell and his
boys spared what they could for the thrifty wife at home, who had fitted
up her closet window with shelves, and placed thereupon a stock of
threads, pins, needles, soap, starch, tape, and such like small and
least perishable articles, as might make some return in the shape of
home profit, instead of working in the fields.

This cottage stood at the entrance of the village, and the shop, if such
it might be called, had frequent customers among the poor. A single
candle, a small loaf, half an ounce of tea, a halfpennyworth of cheese,
a pennyworth of butter, or sugar, or snuff, or tobacco, could here be
obtained. Thus Dame Cracknell managed to turn a penny in her own way;
contented with small gains, she provided for her rapidly increasing
family in a decent and honest manner, and looked forward with hope for
more custom. She made no outward show to create opposition, and, had she
always done so, might have gone on prosperously; but this joyful
Whitsuntide, which found her and her friends so quietly happy, was
fraught with untoward circumstances, which neither she nor her
neighbours could foresee. She had invited a few friends to partake of
her christening fare, and expected her relative, Stephen Laud, from
Felixstowe Ferry, to stand with Margaret Catchpole and herself as
sponsors for the little Susan.

This Stephen Laud was a famous boatman, and for many years plied at the
ferry-boat between Harwich and Langer Fort, now called Landguard Fort.
That it required a skilful pilot to manage a ferry-boat, which had
nearly two miles to run from the Suffolk to the Essex side, will be
easily imagined. As government letters were always conveyed from
Harwich to the fort, at that time, the ferryman was in the receipt of
government pay, and it was considered a good situation for an active
man. Such was Stephen Laud--and not only active, but a man of no common
intelligence. He had been left a widower, with one son, William, whose
uncle, a boat-builder at Aldborough, had taken a great liking to him. He
had bound him apprentice to Mr. Turner, the ship-builder, at Harwich,
where the boy had acquired no mean tact at his employment, and grew up a
good workman, though somewhat too free a spirit for a settled character.
He was very fond of the sea, and, from the joyous buoyancy of his
disposition, the captains of the traders to Aldborough used frequently
to give him a run.

Mr. Crabbe, a brother of the celebrated poet, with whom young Laud
studied navigation, used to say he was the quickest lad as a
mathematician he ever knew. He was a merry, high-spirited sailor, rather
than a boat-builder. He was very intimate with one Captain Bargood, a
master and owner of several ships then trading along the coast, and over
to Holland.

So taken was the captain with Will Laud, that he would have persuaded
him at once to join service with him. Will was generally liked; and
though his uncle wished him to stick to the boat-building, he could not
but confess that he would make a far better sailor. He knew, however,
that his old father, the pilot, would not approve of his going to sea
for a permanency, without his having a voice in the matter; and as
Captain Bargood offered to give young Laud a fair share of profits
without loss, and Will had such a turn for the sea, he had sent him over
to his father, to ask his consent to this change in his course. This was
the subject of their conversation, as, upon the Whitsuntide mentioned,
they journeyed on foot from Felixstowe Ferry to Nacton, a distance of
six miles.

"You speak famously, boy, of this captain: he may be all right, and his
offers to you seem to be good. I have heard it hinted, however, that he
is not over-nice; and that though, as times go, he may be an honest
trader, yet that he can find friends to help him over with a cargo of
moonshine, and get a good run too into the country."

"I never heard a word of any such traffic, father, and whenever I have
been with him I have never seen him in any suspicious company. He would
never persuade me to this work, father. I am the son of a government
man, and I hope I shall always prove myself an honest tar."

"I hope so too, my boy; I hope so, too; but when once the block runs,
down fall the sails. Take care, my lad; keep your eye ahead."

"Don't be afraid, father; only you give consent, and I shall sail with
fair wind and weather."

"I can but wish you well, boy; I can give you but little help. You are
now entering your twentieth year, and seem to me determined to go to
sea. I shall not persuade you against your own inclinations; so, go; and
may the great Pilot above keep you in safety from the dangers of the
breakers! I will do what I can for you."

This consent seemed to animate young Laud with most fervent
thankfulness, and his elastic spring carried him over every stile he
came to. As they neared the village of Nacton he was chatty upon many
subjects, but more especially upon the object of his journey.

"I never was at a christening party," said the young man; "whom shall we
meet there, father?"

"Your relatives on the mother's side are all poor, William, but honest
people. I have long promised to be godfather to one of the Cracknells,
and now I am called upon to make good my promise. You will meet their
friends the Catchpoles, and one or two others. Perhaps Margaret
Catchpole may be there, as her sister Susan, I hear, will never be
likely to get out again."

"Margaret Catchpole! Margaret Catchpole! I wonder whether that is the
girl whose name I heard so much about two years ago. I was with Captain
Bargood at the Neptune, near the quay, as all the people in the street
were talking about a spirited girl riding a pony full speed from Nacton
to Ipswich for the doctor. The name I heard mentioned was the same you
speak of."

"And was the very person we shall perhaps see among the party to-day."

"I am glad of it, for I can easily conceive she must be an enterprising
girl; I shall like to see her much. She must be very young still."

"About sixteen. I have heard that she is a very respectable young
woman."

Conversation of this kind served to entertain the youth and his father,
and to divert the current of their thoughts from the sea, until they
arrived at Nacton Street. They descended that ravine-looking village,
and, passing the blacksmith's shop at the bottom of the valley, ascended
the hill near Admiral Vernon's, passed the church towards the Ipswich
road, and arrived at Master Cracknell's cottage. The ever-ready Margaret
had been before them to assist, and had made herself useful in many
ways. The humble holiday party consisted of the Catchpoles, father and
two sons,--the two Calthorpes, Stephen and William Laud, and the no
small family of the Cracknells; and last, not least, the heroine of the
day, Margaret Catchpole.

The cottage, as the reader may suppose, was full; but welcome were they
all to the christening, and joyful that day were all the party. Between
the young men and Will Laud a quick intimacy commenced. His character
seemed formed for a holiday,--all buoyancy, life, and animation; he
could at one time have his fun with the children, another have feats of
bodily strength with the young men; tell a good story for the old
people, and sing a good song for the whole party.

Laud was greatly prepossessed in Margaret's favour; he had heard much of
her at Ipswich, and had been long anxious to see her. When he did see
her, she more than answered all his expectations. He thought to see a
lively, spirited child, with whom he might joke of her childish but
noble act, or romp; but he beheld a very respectable, decent young
woman, who, though active and intelligent, was far from having any
childish manners, lively, agreeable, and unaffected, with a quickness
and spirit well answering to his own.

As for Margaret, such a bright vision of pleasure had never before
entered her thoughts or heart, as stole upon her that day. In short,
both William and Margaret may be said to have imbibed a partiality for
each other on this day, which ripened into such an attachment as has
seldom been recorded among all the host of love-stories which fill the
pages of romance. But these pages record no romance of unreal life; they
tell a plain, unvarnished tale,--a tale which, having been continually
related in private circles, is now given to the world at large, as a
remarkable series of events in

     The short and simple annals of the poor.

The merry christening passed away, and the friends parted, but not for a
long period. Charles Catchpole, who had been mightily taken with young
Laud, agreed to accompany him to his father's. They all left the cottage
of Cracknell together, and all arrived in safety at their respective
homes; but not without Will Laud having walked double distance, to show
a devotion to our heroine which he, at that time, most sincerely felt.

But they, like all lovers and friends, must and did part. Young William
had a long and agreeable soliloquy with himself, as he traversed again
that road by night which he had gone in the morning with his father. How
different the current of his thoughts! In the morning he was all raging
for the sea, but what a comparative calm as to that desired object now
ensued. There was tumult stirring of another kind, which seemed to
engross the whole of his thoughts, and centre them upon the land, not
upon the ocean.

It is unnecessary to follow this youth through his every day's journey
to and from Margaret's cottage. His uncle began to think that his father
had succeeded in making a landsman of him; for Time, which flies
swiftly on the wings of Love, goes slower and more mechanically with
those who have to work hard every day, and whose bread depends upon the
sweat of their brow.

Charles Catchpole, though he caught infection from the roving spirit of
young Laud, and found in him a love of enterprise which charmed him, did
not seem so fond of the sea as to be induced to leave for it his more
peaceful occupation. The young men were so far pleased with each other,
because Laud endeavoured to entertain Charles, and Charles was only too
happy to be so entertained. Yet the young landsman wanted to know more
of distant countries than young Laud, who had only been a coasting
trader, could tell him. He had once, indeed, been over to Holland, but
did not go far into the country; so that all the information he could
give related to simply the seaport towns on the coast.

Whence arose this inquiring spirit on the part of Charles Catchpole, no
one could determine. The lad had once expressed a wish to be a soldier;
and it was the old clerk and sexton of the parish of Nacton who used to
read and explain to him that there were strange people in the world; and
these notions, which had for some time slumbered, seemed to be awakened
by young Laud's company.

Will Laud had idle time to spare, and he devoted a great portion of it
to Margaret, and was a constant attendant at Nacton. All the family knew
of the attachment, and it was no secret with any neighbour who chanced
to come in, all of whom were well pleased with Will Laud, and
congratulated their respective friends on the future happiness of the
young people. Even the master and mistress, for whom the family worked,
were satisfied with appearances; and the maids at the farm, who had
never quite forgiven Margaret for her good offices, were not a little
jealous at the early prepossession of the young sailor for "the girl,"
as they called her.

Poor Susan, the sick sister, was the only one of the whole family who
did not like Will Laud. There frequently dwells in the sickliest forms
the purest love. Susan felt more interested for Margaret's future
happiness than did any one else in the family. Through all that weakness
of body, there was a strength of mind and of judgement, which those who
have for a long time had the prospect of dissolution before them
frequently possess. She looked with penetrating eyes upon the young man.
She weighed well his spirit, listened to his free conversation, and
formed her idea of the young man's character, not from outward
appearance, but from the tone of sentiment which came from his heart.
She was shocked to find that there was, through all his attentions and
general desire to please every one, a levity of expression upon the most
serious subjects. She did not say much to Margaret upon this point; but
her manner towards her lover was colder, and, in some measure, more
repulsive than her sister liked. It is said, that "we can always tell
those who love us." It is equally true "that we can always tell those
who dislike us."

Poor Susan did not openly rebuke Will Laud. Yet he perceived that she
did not approve of him, and said to Margaret--"I do not think your
sister Susan likes me." Why should he think this? He had never heard
Susan utter a word of rebuke to him. But sometimes, in the midst of his
wild vagaries, a glance of that bright eye which flashed, searching into
his spirit, would make the young sailor pause and finish his story in a
tamer way than he intended. Susan's affectionate disposition would not
allow her, in that apparently happy period of the two lovers'
intercourse, to speak anything harshly, but the more than usual warmth
of her interest was not to be mistaken. That pressure of the hand; that
kiss, with a starting tear in the eye, that hope expressed that she
might be happy, though a fixed tearfulness of doubt seemed to hover over
her mind, whilst she so often prayed for her sister, made Margaret
almost tremble, as if Susan foreboded evil.

"Dear sister," said Margaret to her one day; "dear sister, you look so
gloomily on my lover and me!"

"No, Margaret. I look only with love upon you, and am only, perhaps, too
anxious for your future happiness. I am not gloomy. I love you so
dearly, Margaret, that I pray that you may live in happiness all your
days. I do not like to lose any of your love."

"Nor I any of yours, dear Susan; but sometimes I fear I either have so
done, or may so do. Laud fancies you do not like him."

"It is only that I love you so dearly, that if any one loves you less
than I do, it makes me feel unhappy. I like Laud very well as a visitor,
and he appears very fond of you, Margaret; but he seems to me to think
too much of himself to be exactly what I wish him to be, for your sake."

"May you not be mistaken, Susan? I am very young, and it must be years
before we marry. Do not you think he may be likely to improve with his
years?"

"I should have thought so, had I not observed that vanity prompts him to
boast of his own successes over his uncle and his father. He has got his
own will of both, and appears to me to forget the sacrifices they have
made for his humour, which he fancies to be for his benefit. But I do
not speak against him, Margaret. I only wish him all that can be good,
for your sake."

This conversation might have extended much farther but for the entrance
of Laud, who came rather in haste to say that he was sent for by Captain
Bargood to Felixstowe Ferry. He had been into the field with young
Charles Catchpole, and a sailor brought to him an urgent and special
message that he would come to the captain, as he wished to see him upon
very particular business.

"Margaret," he said, "I must take my leave of you for a short time. I
suspect the captain wants me to go a voyage; but it will not be a long
one. I am assured of good pay, in a share, probably, of his profits,
without having to sustain the risk of loss."

Whatever present grief Margaret might feel at the departure of her
betrothed, she did not give way to any deep lamentation. She knew that
Laud must work for his living, as well as she for hers, but she did not
despair of success; they were both young, both enjoying health and
strength. Regret she might feel, but Hope was ever the bright beacon of
Margaret's days. She could only express her hope that they might soon
meet again; and as her father and brothers came in from their labour,
Laud shook them all by the hand, told them he was going again to sea,
and wished them "all health and hearty cheer."

It was with much regret that the old man and his sons found that Laud
must leave them, and their honest nature failed not in expressing every
good wish for a pleasant voyage. Laud turned to the sick-bed upon which
poor Susan lay, and approached to bid her good-bye. He was surprised to
see her in tears, and greatly agitated: so much so, indeed, that the
bed-clothes shook with such a tremulous motion, that they showed the
extent of her agitation.

"Good-bye, Susan," said Laud, and extended his hand.

Susan turned her piercing eye upon him, took his warm hand in her cold,
transparent, bloodless fingers, and with great effort spoke to him.

"William, I want to say a word before you go." Here she paused to take
breath, and every one who loved her crowded round her bed. "I have
observed, William, much in your character that requires alteration,
before you can be either happy yourself or can make my sister so. You
have a lightness of thought, which you do not blush to express, which
appears to me bordering upon infidelity. There is a God, William, Who
observes us all, and knows every secret of our hearts, and in His sight
piety, parental love, and duty, are qualities which meet His
approbation, and the contrary provoke his displeasure. I have observed
with pain that you sometimes speak with levity of those whom you ought
to love. You may not intend to be wicked, but your language, with
respect to the guardians of your youth, is not good. You will forgive
my speaking my mind to you now, as I am sure I shall never see you again
in this world: but if ever we do meet in another and a better world, you
must alter greatly in the sentiments of your heart. We shall never meet
if you do not. You want steadiness of principle and firmness of purpose.
You may lead those who look up to you; but I can see that you may be
very easily led by others, who have only to exercise determination, and
they may tempt you to anything. You want, I repeat it, steadiness of
principle and stability of purpose. I love my dear sister, and I can
foresee that you will make her very unhappy if you do not alter in this
respect. Take what I say in good part, and forget it not. I can only
pray for your welfare. If ever you are unkind to Margaret, you and I
shall never meet in another world. Good-bye, William, good-bye!"

The effort had been too much for her weak state, and she sank back
exhausted, hiding her tears upon her pillow.

Youth and health do not dwell long upon the words of sickness, though
love cannot fail to produce a powerful effect for the time. Laud
returned to Felixstowe, leaving our cottagers to lament his departure,
and Margaret to the exercise of those duties to which her nature and
inclination made her then, and ever after, so well adapted--the nursing
of an invalid. Had she not had these duties to perform, she might have
felt more keenly the loss of her lover. She was never of a desponding
disposition. She knew that Laud must work hard; and she hoped that his
love for her would make him prudent and careful, though it might be
years before they both saved a sufficiency to furnish a cottage.

Her duties to poor Susan became every day more urgent, for every day
seemed to bring her slowly to her end. Her attentions to this sick
sister were of the gentlest and most affectionate kind. Softly, gently,
noiselessly, she made every one go in and out of the apartment. Susan
wished that all whom she knew and loved should pray with her, and her
good mistress frequently came up from the farm to read to her. Oh, how
eagerly does the mind of the sufferer devour the word of God!--the more
humble, the more sweet that precious fruit to the palate of the sick!
How does she desire more and more of the living waters of life, and lift
her eyes to Heaven, and turn them in upon her heart, to see whence her
help might come!

Poor Susan had been too long a sufferer not to have learned the duties
of patience; she had too humble a spirit to think anything of herself;
but when she thought of her father, mother, brothers, and sister, her
whole soul seemed absorbed in their present and future welfare.

Oh! what instructive lessons may be learned at the sick-bed! How wise
are the reflections then made upon life and immortality! Could men only
be as wise at all hours, how happy might they be!

But Susan's hours were numbered, and her end drew nigh. Scarcely three
weeks after the departure of Laud, she was called away; but her end was
so characteristic of piety and love, that, despite of the impatience of
the hasty reader, it must be recorded. On Saturday, the 24th of June,
not long before the family were about to retire to rest, Susan said to
Margaret, "Lift me up, dear, lift me up--I feel myself going." As might
be expected, a word of this sort called them all around her. The poor,
weak, wasted, emaciated girl, with an eye as brilliant as the purest
crystal, and a countenance expressive of the calm spirit within, looked
upon the mother bathing her thin hand with tears, and the affectionate
father and brothers a little more composed, but not less afflicted.
Edward, the youngest, knelt close by her side; whilst the affectionate
Margaret, with her arm and part of her chest supporting the raised
pillow, against which the sufferer leant, held with her left hand the
other transparent one of her dying sister.

Who shall paint the silver locks of age, and that calm eye, watching the
waning light of a dear daughter's life? "Let us pray," said the dying
girl; "let us pray." Around the bed knelt six of her relatives, and in
deep humility heard Susan's prayer for them all, whilst they could only
answer, with a sob, "God bless you!"

But now came an effort, which seemed to agitate the sufferer beyond all
former exertions: the clothes around her poor chest seemed to shake with
excess of emotion, as, with a most earnest and impressive look, she half
turned herself round, and uttered the name of her sister.

"Margaret," she said, "Margaret, you will never marry William Laud--he
will cause you all much sorrow; but do not forsake the right and honest
path, and you will find peace at the last. Margaret, my dear sister,
never suffer him to lead you astray! Promise me, promise me never to be
his, except he marry you amidst your friends."

"I never will, dear Susan--I never will."

"Bless you! God bless you all!" And with one look up, as if she would
pierce the skies, she raised both her hands to heaven, and said, "O
blessed Saviour!" and with those words her spirit took its flight to
eternity.

What a thrill, a holy thrill, ran through the hearts of all, as they
witnessed this solemn but cheerful end of her they so dearly loved! That
night was, indeed, one of serious reflection among them all: they
thought and talked of her, and blessed her, and resolved to follow her
advice, and keep the honest path.




CHAPTER II

THE TEMPTATION


Laud reached Felixstowe Ferry: he had seen his parent, and then went to
the shore to meet the captain. There they stand under the cliff, by the
shore, opposite the harbour and town of Harwich, whilst the light gleams
upon the distant beacon of Walton-on-the-Naze. There is a boat a short
distance on the calm wave, and not far ahead a brig is seen standing off
and on. The captain is pointing to the brig, and seems very earnest in
his conversation; whilst a sort of cool composure is settled upon the
firm attitude of Will Laud, as he listens and seems to remain immovable.

Oh! would that he had so remained! Many an afterpang, which the birth of
that day's sorrow occasioned, would have been spared.

"Well, Laud, I make you a fair offer," said this artful captain; "I make
you a fair offer of the command of the brig: there she is, as tight a
vessel as ever cut a wave. I will venture to say, that when you helped
to lay her keel with Turner, you little dreamt of commanding on board of
her."

"I have no objection to the craft, captain; but I do not like the job."

"No: I suppose you would like to live at home along with the old
ferryman, your father; or, perhaps, knock away at boat-building on the
Alde. Pshaw, Will, pshaw! this is a tame kind of life. I took you for a
fellow of more spirit, or I never should have taken you for my
messmate."

"When you took me for such, you took me as an honest man, and all your
dealings were above-board. Now you want to make me a smuggler. This is
the work, captain, I do not like. My father is an honest man, and under
Government--why should I bring disgrace upon him?"

"And does it follow, Will, that I am what you call a smuggler, because I
do a little in a free trade? Where's the disgrace you speak of?--and who
is to bring it upon us? Come, Will, there are two sides of a question,
and we may hit upon the right as well as the wrong."

"But we shall be cheating the Government of our country."

"As to that, Will, look from the highest to the lowest, and see if they
do not all do so as long as they can with impunity."

"I do not see that."

"No, Will, no; because you shut your eyes. But who pays more tax than he
can help, or as much as is strictly due, either for his horses,
servants, powder, malt, hops, windows, silk, woollen, or any commodity
whatever, upon which a wholesale tax is imposed for the good of the
country? Don't talk, then, of cheating Government. I call mine only a
little free trade; and if I choose to employ a few free hands and pay
them well, what is that to anybody?"

"You may employ them with more freedom in an honest way, than running
such risk of life, liberty, and property, as you do. I almost as much
grieve that I ever knew you, captain, as I do now at being compelled to
leave your service. I have been obliged to you hitherto, but you want
now to lay me under an obligation to which I have no stomach."

"This is only since you came to the ferry, and went to the christening.
Go back, my boy, go back and turn ploughman. You will like that better
than ploughing the waves. You will only be, after all, a lubberly
landsman. But I must hail my fellows, and be off. What a pity such a
brig should go a-begging for a captain! Your own work, too, Will. Well,
well, I did not think you such a fool. Here, with a silver spoon in your
mouth, you would throw it away, and take up with a wooden one. Go, eat
your bread sopped in warm water, in a wooden bowl, and leave your old
messmates and friends to good fare, an active life, and cheerful
company. Good-bye, Will; good-bye."

And the captain turned round to give the signal to his boatmen to pull
to shore; but without the least intention of giving up his prey. It was
only as a cat would pretend to let her victim escape to a little
distance, under the idea of having more play.

"Go to your girl, boy; go to your girl," said he, as he took a step
toward the beach. "She will be glad to see you without employment, and
sick of the sea for her sake."

"I'll tell you what, captain, my girl's an honest one, and if you were
to make her a disloyal offer, she would be the first to heave up her
anchor, or cut her cable, and haul to windward and be off."

"I don't make her any offer; I have nothing to do with any of her sex,
and the less you have to do with them the better, Will. But if you must
have her in your eye, why not for her sake try to get a comfortable
berth for her? In a very short time, you will be able to secure enough
to make her happy. After a few runs, you may have a snug cot, near this
very cove, and be as comfortable as you wish to be. But if you have made
up your mind, and are determined not to accept my offer, why then I must
find another who will; and I warrant, that I need not go far before I
meet with one who will jump at the chance."

"I say, captain, how many voyages shall I go, before that time comes you
speak of?"

"That depends upon our luck. The quicker work we make, the sooner we
shall keep our harbour. One year, perhaps two. At all events, three, and
your berth is sure."

"Well, captain, but how shall it be for share?"

"Why, there's the brig, and look ye, Will, she's all right and tight,
and everything well provided aboard her. She is under your command; your
first trip to Holland; your cargo, gin; and as to other goods, snuff,
tobacco, linen, and such things, I let you barter with for yourself.
Only secure me the main chance. As to risk, that's all mine. You shall
receive, say one-sixth of the profit for the first year, one-third for
the second; and an equal share after. Now, my boy, but that I know your
pluck, and your tact, I should never make you such an offer. There you
have it."

"Captain, I'm your man!--I'm your man!"

And so he sold himself to as artful, desperate, and bold a rover, as
ever crossed the Channel. How true were poor Susan's last words to
him--"You want steadiness of principle and stability of purpose!" From
that hour, Will entered upon a course of life which led to his own ruin,
and the ruin of others. He was caught in the toils of a smuggler, from
which, though he once escaped, he never had sufficient stability to
entirely emancipate himself.

Captain Bargood, to whom Will thus sold himself, was a clever as well as
a desperate adventurer. He contrived to keep up appearances as a steady
trader, and had vessels as regularly chartered as any of England's
noblest merchants. His sails visited with proper invoices all the ports
along the coast, and he had connexions in every town of the first class
of dealers. Yet this man managed to have withal an under-current in the
contraband trade, which paid him far greater profits than his regular
account.

So well did he arrange his plans, that if a vessel of his was taken by
the coastguard, he had always a captain or a mate to father her, and as
he always paid them well, his own fair fame was suspected by none but
those who occasionally bought goods of him at a price so far below the
market, that they were content to let their suspicions subside in their
own profits. He was a good judge of men, both of sailors, landsmen,
gentry, and men of business. He knew how far to trust them, and how soon
to shorten his sail. His ships, captains, and crews, were as well known
to him as anything in his own unostentatious cottages at Aldborough,
Hollesley, Harwich, or Ipswich; in which he occasionally took up his
abode, as business or inclination prompted. But he equally well knew
Will Laud, and foresaw in him the very commander who should bring him
in many a good prize in the shape of spirits or tobacco, furs or linen.
He cared for no man's success but his own. He could be rough, smooth,
hot, or cool, just as he thought best to gain his end. Money was his
idol, and, as a quick return and enormous profit for a small outlay, the
smuggler's trade seemed to him the most promising. Laud would, and as
the sequel will show, did prove a valuable servant or slave to him. This
man outlived every one of his captains, and died about four years ago:
namely, in the year 1841.

But the young sailor is arm-in-arm with the captain, the boat is hailed,
the crew, four oars and a steersman, approach the shore, and the captain
calls out--

"Now, Jack, high and dry for your new commander!"

The boat grounds, and Laud and his future master are seated in the
stern.

"Long time bringing-to, captain?" said the gruff and surly-looking John
Luff, a fellow who seemed formed of such materials as compose a
cannon-ball. He looked like what he was, an iron-hearted and iron-fisted
desperado, whose only pleasure was to serve a bad man, and to rule every
one in the ship who had a little more feeling than himself.

They were soon on board the brig, and Laud was duly introduced to the
crew, and appointed their captain.

"Yes, master, yes," said the mate, "we understand. You need not spin us
a long yarn; business, say I, and the sooner the better. I will take
care of him, trust me. He's a smart boy. He'll do, captain, he'll do."

The mate, John Luff, and the master, seemed to understand each other.
The captain shook hands with Laud, and bidding him take care of his own
craft, he left them outward bound, and came ashore at Woodbridge Haven.

Let it suffice, for the reader's information, that Laud was successful
in his new career. He made his voyage pay well, and contrived to send
some handsome presents to Margaret, too handsome to be acceptable. Alas!
how little did that desperate youth think that he was giving pain
instead of pleasure to all those who had any interest in his welfare!
How little did he think he was laying the foundation of misery and woe
to his father, to the Catchpoles, to the Cracknells, and to every one
who knew him!

His first present was received by Margaret at a time when the heart of a
true lover is most open to the kind acts of friendship. Poor Margaret
and the family had just returned from the funeral of Susan, and were
seated in the cottage, talking over the good qualities of their dear
departed and beloved friend. Her sayings and doings, her affectionate
advice, her patience and resignation, were all topics of conversation,
and each had some kind act to record, not one a single fault to mention.
One or two of the Cracknells, and a workman or two on the farm, who
helped to carry the corpse, were all of the party who were not
relatives. The good mother had prepared the mournful meal, some cake,
bread and butter, a cup of tea, and a pint of beer each for the men.
They were partaking of this humble meal in a very subdued and quiet
spirit, as there came a rap at the door, and young Edward opened it.

"Come in," said the father, and in walked a weatherbeaten man, who from
his dress might be taken for some honest ploughman, but whose
countenance betrayed a very different expression--none of that openness
and simplicity which good labourers and countrymen wear, but a shaggy
brow, and matted thick black hair. His eyebrows half covered the sockets
of his eyes, which peeped from under them with an inquisitive glance, to
see if all was safe.

"Does one Margaret Catchpole live here?" said the man.

"Yes, she does," was Margaret's quick reply; "what do you want with her?
I am she."

"Oh! you be she, be you? Then I be commissioned to deliver this here
parcel into your hands;" and, easing his shoulder of a heavy bale of
goods, they came with some weight upon the chair which Edward had
vacated for the guest.

"From whom does this come?" said she.

"I don't know who he is. I was at work on the marshes at Bawdsey Ferry,
when a young sailor came up to me, and asked me if I knew where Nacton
was. I told him I knew whereabouts it was. He then asked me if I would
take this here bundle to one Margaret Catchpole, a labourer's daughter,
living, as he described, in just this place, which I have found."

"Did he give his name?"

"No; he said he couldn't come himself, but that this here would remind
you of him."

All immediately concluded who he was, and Margaret asked Edward to bring
the packet into the sleeping-room, whilst the countryman was asked to
sit down and take a draught of beer.

The parcel was unpacked. There were silks and shawls, caps and lace,
ribbons and stuffs, and gloves; parcels of tea, coffee, tobacco, and
snuff; together with curious-headed and silver-tipped pipes; in short,
enough to stock a small shop. But there was nothing to give pleasure to
Margaret. That poor girl's heart sank within her at a sight which she at
once perceived was far too costly to be honestly procured. She called to
Edward to assist her in tying up the bale again, and removing it into
the room where the pretended countryman was seated. As she entered, the
fellow roughly accosted her--

"Well! you find summut there, I dare say, to tempt you soon to put aside
these dark-looking dresses which you all wear. I must be going: can I
take anything back for you?"

"Yes," said Margaret--"yes; you may take the whole bundle back the same
way you brought it, and tell the young man who gave it you that I should
have valued one single pair of honestly purchased gloves more than all
the valuables he has sent me."

There was a twinkle of that small grey eye, and a twitch of the muscles
of that sun-burnt face, which showed that even the hardy, rough-looking
countryman was startled at such an honest spirit as then addressed him.
This person was none other than John Luff, the mate of the _Alde_, who
had undertaken to perform this duty for Captain Laud, from a motive,
without much love in it, simply because he feared that the captain might
be persuaded by his girl to leave off a smuggler's life. He saw in an
instant that such would have been the case, had young Laud come with
him, or brought the load himself. He had assumed the countryman's dress
to avoid any notice from the coastguard, and, until he came to the lane
leading to the farm, he had brought the bale of goods in a sack slung
over his shoulder, as if it were corn, or chaff, or flour. He was not
very easily put out, nor long in giving his answer.

"No, young woman, I have had lug enough to bring it here, and I got a
crown for my job; mayhap, if I were to take it back to the youngster, I
might lose half my crown, and so be paid for my trouble. I'm not fond of
broken heads for a love-ditty. You may find some one else to take it
back: I've done my duty."

"No, you have not," said Margaret; "you are no landsman, I am sure: your
duty is not that of an honest labourer. You are--I am sure you
are--connected with the smugglers on the coast. You may take this parcel
for yourself. I give it to you, to do what you like with; but do tell
the young man, when you see him, that I hate his presents, though not
himself."

"I won't have anything to do with what's not my own," said the man,
"although you tell me I'm not an honest man. I'm off. I was to meet the
young chap again to-morrow at the same time and place. If you had any
small love-token now, or any words which might not anger the young
fellow, why, I shouldn't mind taking 'em; but if you haven't any, why
then I'll tell him you didn't care anything about him or his present. So
good-bye to you."

The fellow took up his hat and stick to depart.

"Hold!" said Margaret--"hold!" and taking her father's hat down from its
peg, she tore off the crape, and folding it up, she approached the
disguised seaman, saying--"Give him this--do give him this--and tell
him, I'd rather we all wore the like for him, than the rich things he
has sent us. Will you tell him this?"

"No doubt he'll be much obliged to you: but you won't be long in this
mind. So, good-bye to you all." And the man departed, leaving that
spirited girl to think with pain of the dreaded words of
Susan--"Margaret, you will never marry William Laud!"




CHAPTER III

MISFORTUNES


Well would it have been for the Catchpoles and the Cracknells, had they
burnt every bit of valuable stuff which the smuggler had that day
brought. What years of anguish would it have spared them!--what
miseries! what agonies! Nothing unlawful can long prosper. Sorrow and
bitterness follow the days of unjust gain, and whosoever thinks to be
happy by the sudden influx of ill-gotten wealth, will find himself
grievously mistaken. Wealth gotten by honest industry and fair dealing
may enable a good man to soothe the sufferings of others, but even when
obtained, men find that it is not the being rich, but the regular
employment in a prosperous line of life, that gives the pleasure. Sudden
prosperity is too often destructive of a man's peace of mind; but sudden
prosperity, by evil means, is sure to bring its own ruin. Had but that
first bale of goods been burnt, Margaret might have continued the happy,
cheerful child of Nature, respected and received as the honest,
good-hearted girl she really was.

It may fairly be said of Margaret, that she had no covetous hankering
after any of the goods which were that day presented to her eye. She
told all her friends what they were, and consulted with them what should
be done with them. She would have given them up to the government
officers, but she saw that it would involve her lover. She would have
sent them to Laud's father, but again the idea of causing him distress
deterred her. Oh! that she had cast them upon the broad sea, and let who
would have caught them! But they were goodly things to look upon; they
were costly--too good to throw away. And as Mrs. Cracknell said they
might all be serviceable, and it was a sin to waste them, she persuaded
Margaret to let her have them.

"Let my good man take them home; we may by degrees get rid of them. I
can do the smaller packages up in smaller parcels, in my way; and as to
the silks and lace, I can find perhaps a distant customer to take them
off my hands."

"You may do what you like with them," said Margaret, "only do not let me
know anything more about them."

"You know, Mr. Catchpole," said Mrs. Cracknell, "that we may all want a
little help one day, and these things may provide against a stormy hour.
At all events, you shall lose nothing by them, though they now bring you
no profit."

It did not take much time to persuade these simple-minded people to part
with things for which they had no demand and no taste.

Mrs. Cracknell had them conveyed to her cottage, where she had them
sorted out, and, as prudently as possible, disposed of them according to
the means of her humbler customers.

After a time, she found herself gradually improving in circumstances,
and, had she been content, might have gone on improving for years. Her
profits were too rapid, however, not to excite a stronger mind than she
possessed. She made, of course, handsome presents to the young
Catchpoles, and Margaret had the mortification of seeing a smart pipe,
and of smelling the fumes of rich tobacco, even in her own cottage, well
knowing they were the fruits of her lover's misdoings.

Meantime, that lover's name began to be notorious along the coast.
Margaret heard no good of him. The coastguard had set a mark upon him,
and it became known throughout the country that Will Laud was the
ringleader of as desperate a gang as ever infested the shores of Great
Britain.

So frequent were the inroads made at this period upon the commerce of
the country, that government had to employ a very active force to stay,
though she could not put down, so discreditable a feature upon her
coasts.

At this time the shores of Norfolk and Suffolk were most conspicuous for
contraband trade. Severe and deadly were the continual actions between
the preventive-service men and the smugglers; lives were continually
lost on both sides; and dreadful animosities sprang up between the
parties upon the sea-shore.

Will Laud and his associates had great luck; and Captain Bargood found
in him as bold and profitable a fellow as he could wish. Many were the
hairbreadth escapes, however, which he, in conjunction with his crew,
experienced. Laud was a tool in the hands of his mate, though he himself
was not aware of it; for whilst that fellow had his own way, he always
managed to get it through the medium of the captain's permission. He
would, in his bluff way, suggest, with all becoming subordination, such
and such a scheme, and generally succeeded in the enterprise.

They had observed for a long time a scout upon the beach under Bawdsey
Cliffs, and knew that he was one of the Irish cruisers, who had been
transplanted to watch their craft: Laud proposed to nab him when he
could. He had been ashore one day to meet his employer, and had met this
merry-hearted Irishman at the Sun Inn, in a street of that long, sandy
village of Bawdsey. Pat was a loquacious, whisky-loving, light-hearted
fellow, who, without fear, and with ready wit, made himself agreeable
to everybody. He frequented the various inns along the border, and was
generally liked for his dash of gallantry, his love of drinking, and his
generous spirit; he was a brave fellow, too, and watchful for his
honour. He had seen along the beach a man roaming about, and had
concealed himself, not far from the fisherman's cottage, on purpose to
watch him; but all he could make out was, that the man went to the back
of the cottage, and there he lost him. Pat went to the fisherman's cot,
found the man and his wife at their meals, searched about the premises,
but could spy nothing. Pat had seen this thing several times, and was
fully convinced that the man he saw was a smuggler.

In Bawdsey Cliff the smugglers had a cave of no small dimensions. It had
formerly been a hollow ravine in the earth, formed by the whirling of a
stream of water, which had passed quickly through a gravelly bed, and
met with opposition in this mass of clay. It had made for itself a large
crater, and then had issued again at the same place, and ran through a
sand-gall and gravelly passage down to the sea. This was discovered by a
tenant of the Earl of Dysart, who, in sinking a well near his shepherd's
cottage, suddenly struck into the opening of this cave. As the springs
were low at this season, the cave was almost empty of water, and formed
a most curious appearance. It was even then called the Robbers' Cave,
and curiosity was greatly excited in the country to visit it. It was so
smoothly and regularly formed by the eddies of the whirlpool, that the
nicest art could not have made it so uniform. The proprietor sank his
well some feet lower, until he came to a good stream; but in making the
well, he formed an archway into this curious place, and left it so for
the gratification of public curiosity. Time swept on, and the cave
became less frequented, and at last forgotten.

A few years, however, previously to this narration, some smugglers had
been disappointed of their run, and had thrown their tubs down the well,
with the consent of their agent the fisherman, probably a descendant of
the old shepherd's, who dwelt in the cottage. This led to the
re-discovery and improvement of this famous depôt of arms, ammunition,
stock-in-trade, and place of retreat, which was then occupied by Will
Laud and his associates, and to which very spot John Luff was at that
time bound.

These men had contrived to make the cave as comfortable a berth as a
subterraneous place could be. They had ingeniously tapped the land
stream below the cave, and laid it perfectly dry, and with much labour
and ingenuity had contrived to perforate the clay into the very chimney
of the cottage; so that a current of air passed through the archway
directly up the chimney, and carried away the smoke, without the least
suspicion being awakened. This place was furnished with tables, mats,
stools, and every requisite for a place of retreat and rendezvous. The
descent was by a bucket well-rope, which a sailor well knew how to
handle; whilst the bucket itself served to convey provisions or goods of
any kind.

Such was the place into which vanished the choice spirits which poor Pat
had seen, and into which Pat himself, _nolens_, _volens_, was shortly to
be introduced. It would be needless to add, that the fisherman and his
wife were accomplices of the smugglers.

Some short time after, Pat had an opportunity of discovering the use of
the well as an inlet and outlet of the smugglers, and conceived the idea
that contraband goods were stowed away at the bottom of it. He had seen
a man, after talking to the woman at the spot, descend, and then come up
again, and depart.

"Now's my turn," says Pat to himself, as he came out from his
hiding-place, and went to the well. As every sailor could let himself
down by a rope, and ascend by it likewise, Pat was soon at the bottom of
the well, but found nothing. He began his ascent, working away with his
hands and feet in a manner which a sailor only understands. He was
gaining more daylight, and hoping that he should get out before the
woman (whom he concluded had gone for help) should return. He had gained
the very part where the archway into the cave was formed, and there
found a sort of stay, or bar, at the opposite side, to rest his leg
upon. He was taking advantage of this post to get breath, and had just
swung off again to ascend, when he felt his ankles grasped by a powerful
pair of pincers, as it seemed, and in another instant such a jerk as
compelled him instantly to let go the rope, and he came with all his
weight against the side of the well. Stunned he was, but not a bone was
broken, for his tormentors had taken the precaution to have a
well-stuffed hammock ready to break his fall. He was in a moment in the
cave, and when reviving, heard such a burst of unearthly merriment, he
could think of nothing but that he had arrived at that dreaded
purgatory, to escape which he had paid so much to his priest.

In a faint, feeble voice, Pat was heard to exclaim--"O, Father O'Gharty;
O, Father O'Gharty, deliver me!"

This caused such another burst, and such a roar of "O, Father O'Gharty!
O, Father O'Gharty!" from so many voices, that the poor fellow groaned
aloud. But a voice, which he fancied he had heard when on earth,
addressed him, as he lay with his eyes just opening to a red glare of
burning torches.

"Patrick O'Brien! Patrick O'Brien! welcome to the shades below."

Pat blinked a little, and opened his eyes wider, and saw, as he thought,
twenty or thirty ghosts of smugglers, whom he supposed had been shot by
the coastguard, and were answering for their sins in purgatory.

"Come, Pat, take a drop of moonshine, my hearty, to qualify the water
you have taken into your stomach: this liquid flame will warm the cold
draught."

Pat had need of something to warm him, but had no idea of drinking
flame.

"I hope," he said, "your majesty will excuse a poor Irishman."

"No excuse! no excuse! By the saint, your namesake, you shall swallow
this gill, or maybe you'll have a little more water to simmer in."

Pat made no further opposition; and one of the uncouth, black-bearded
demons, handed him a cup of as bright, shining liquid as any which the
sons of whisky ever saw.

"Drink, Pat, drink," said the fellow; "a short life and a merry one."

"Och!" sighed Pat, and the next moment the burning liquid ran down his
throat, warming his inside with such a glow, as made the blood circulate
rapidly through every vein of his body. Whether it was the pure gin he
had drunk, or the naturally aspiring disposition of the man, he began to
look around him, and to note the habitation in which they dwelt. Pikes
and guns were slung here and there; cables and casks lay about the room;
swords and pistols--weapons which seemed more adapted to fleshly men
than disembodied spirits--made the reviving spirit of this son of the
Emerald Isle bethink him that he had fallen into the hands of mortals.
He now looked a little more wise, and began to give a good guess at the
truth, when the one who seemed to be the captain of the band soon
dissipated all his doubts by saying, "Patrick O'Brien, here's to
Lieutenant Barry and the preventive service. Come, Pat, drink to your
commander, 'tis the last time you will ever be in such good company."

These words convinced him that he was in the smugglers' cave; and as he
knew them to be most desperate fellows, his own lot did not appear much
more happy than when he thought himself in the company of evil spirits.

"Come, Pat, drink. You need a little comfort."

Pat drank, and though he foresaw that no good could come to him, yet as
the spirit poured in, and his heart grew warm, he thought he would not
seem afraid, so he drank "Success to Lieutenant Barry and the
coastguard!"

"Now, Pat, one more glass, and we part for ever."

Ominous words--"part for ever!" He heartily wished himself again in his
own dear island, ere he had ventured a peep at the bottom of the well.
The smugglers--for such he found they were--grinned upon him most
unceremoniously, as if they had some horrid purpose in view, and seemed
to enjoy the natural timidity which began to creep over his frame.

Pat drank his last glass: John Luff arose, commanded silence, and, in as
gentle a voice as such a fellow could assume, said, "Mr. Patrick
O'Brien, you are welcome now to your choice of departure."

"Thank ye, gemmen, thank ye, and I shall not forget your hospitality."

Pat rose, as if to depart.

"Mr. Patrick O'Brien, the choice of departure we give you is the choice
of death!"

Pat's heart sank within him, but he did not lose all his courage or
presence of mind; and the latter quality suggested to him that he would
try a little blarney.

"Why, gemmen, you wouldn't kill a poor fellow in cold blood, would you?"

"No, Pat, no; and for that reason we have made you welcome to a drop,
that you may not die a cold-blooded death. Draw swords!"

In an instant twenty sharp blades were unsheathed.

"Now, Mr. O'Brien, take your choice: shall every man have a cut at
you--first a leg, then a hand, then an arm, and so on, until your head
only shall remain--or will you be rolled up in a hammock for a sack, as
your winding-sheet, and, well shotted, sink as a sailor to the bottom of
those waters we have just quitted?"

"Thank your honour," said the poor victim of their cruelty, "thank your
honour; and of the two I had rather have neither."

There was no smile upon any of the ferocious countenances around him,
and Pat's hopes of anything but cruelty forsook him. Just at this moment
the bucket descended the well, and in came Will Laud, or Captain Laud,
as he was called, who, acquainted with the fact of the Irishman's
descent (for he was the very person whom Pat had seen to make his exit,
and had been informed by the woman of his being drowned), was a little
relieved to see the man standing in the midst of his men unscathed.

He soon understood the position in which he was placed, and, after a few
words with his Lieutenant, John Luff, himself repeated the already
determined sentence of his crew.

So calm was his voice, so fixed his manner, that the bold Irishman
perceived at once that his doom was at hand. Assuming, therefore, his
wonted courage, making up his mind to death, he looked the commander in
the face, and with the composure of a mind comparatively at ease, said--

"Since I must die, let me die dacently. My choice is made--the hammock
for my winding-sheet, the water for my grave, and God forgive you all."

Not a word more did the brave fellow utter, but stood like a hero, or a
martyr, ready for execution.

Now to the credit of Laud be it recorded, that in his soul he admired
the intrepidity of the man's spirit; and murder, base murder of a bold
man, never was his intention.

He whispered to his mate, though in a moment after he exclaimed to his
crew, "Do your duty."

Pat was tripped up, rolled up in the hammock, swung upon the chain,
heard the whistle, and in an instant found himself, as he thought,
descending to the shades below. In fact, however, he was ascending,
though consciousness for a time forsook him, and the swoon of
anticipated suffocation bereft him of his senses. When he did recover,
he found himself at the bottom of a boat, bounding over the billows, and
was soon on board a ship. Here he revived, and was treated by the crew
with kindness; but after many days he was put ashore on the eastern
coast of his own dear isle, with this gentle admonition:--

"Patrick O'Brien, 'all's well that ends well.' Let well alone for the
future, and now farewell."

So ended this spree, which may serve to show the mind and habits of
those men with whom Will Laud had to deal.

At times these desperate men would be mutinous, but their common
interest kept them together. The persons of several were known along the
coast, and farmers found it to their interest to wink at their
peccadilloes.

It was no uncommon thing for them to have their horses taken out of the
fields, or even out of their stables, for a run at night; but they were
sure of a handsome present being left upon their premises--casks of gin,
real Hollands, packets of linen; and, sometimes learning the thing most
wanted by a particular farmer, he would be surprised to find it directed
to him by an unknown hand, and delivered, without charge, at his door.

The handsomest saddles and bridles which could be procured, whips,
lamps, lanterns, handsome pairs of candlesticks, guns, pistols,
walking-sticks, pipes, &c., were, at various houses, left as presents.
Such was the state of the traffic, that the best spirits could be always
had at the farm-houses on the coast (for all knew where it might be had
without difficulty), only let the money be left for it with the order.
In this manner was the revenue defrauded; and there were men in high
authority who used to defend the practice by calling it England's best
nursery for seamen. Seldom, however, were good men secured from these
sources. The generality of smugglers were not such as England wanted to
defend her liberty and laws.

About this time so many presents were sent to Margaret, and left in such
a clandestine manner at or near the cottage, that although she herself
was never corrupted by any one of these temptations, yet the effects of
them began to show themselves in her family. Charles, the elder brother,
used to find the presents, and dispose of them to Mrs. Cracknell, and he
found his own gains so rapidly increase that he began to be idle; would
not go to plough; disliked working on the land; took to carpentering at
the old sexton's at Nacton; learned to read and write; and again
encouraged his old _penchant_ for soldiering. At length he left his
parents and friends, and enlisted in the 33rd regiment of foot, under
the fictitious name of Jacob Dedham, at the Black Horse public-house,
St. Mary Elm's, Ipswich. He passed himself off as belonging to that
parish; and but for the accidental circumstance of a Nacton lad, of the
name of Calthorpe, seeing him at the inn, his friends and relatives
would have been ignorant of his departure. His regiment soon after his
enlistment sailed for the East Indies; and the history of Charles
Catchpole, alias Jacob Dedham, would of itself form no uninteresting
narrative. He rose in his regiment by great steadiness and assiduity. He
became a singular adept at learning Eastern languages and customs. He
was taken great notice of by Sir William Jones, the great Oriental
linguist, who recommended him to a very important charge under Lord
Cornwallis, who employed him in a confidential duty, as a spy, upon the
frontiers of Persia. We shall have occasion to contemplate him in a
future part of this history. For the present we pass on to some further
fruits of the smuggler's intimacy with the Catchpoles.

Robert, another son, in consequence of the unwholesome introduction of
rapid profits, took to drinking, smoking, and idle company, and very
soon brought himself to an early grave; giving the deepest pangs to his
parents, and creating sorrow and suffering to all. He died of delirium
tremens, in the year 1791.

James became a poacher, and was shot in a desperate affray with the
gamekeepers of Admiral Vernon. He lingered on his brother's bed until
December 15th, 1792, and expired in deep distress, and with a
declaration to poor Margaret, that it was her acquaintance with Laud
that brought him to ruin. The youngest son alone preserved any steady
fixed principles, and was the prop of his parents' hopes.

The whole family now fell into disrepute, and the bitterest days of
adversity followed. Tales began to be circulated of Margaret's
connexion with the smuggler. Sailors were seen to come and go from the
cottage; and if they went but to ask for information, the lying tongue
of slander was sure to propagate some infamous story. It was true that
presents were left about the cottage, and that agents of the Cracknells
were ready to receive them; but Margaret never touched a single thing
that was so found. She was not insensible to all she saw, and she felt
the full weight of Laud's misconduct; but she never forgot to pray for
him, and hoped, with that fondness which true love only can know, that
he would one day be converted. But she partook of the ignominy which now
visited her family, though she assuredly did not deserve it. She
recommended her father to take another cottage, and even to seek work
under another master. Anything she considered would be better than a
place where he met with such continual misfortunes.

It must not be supposed that Mrs. Denton was unkind to Margaret, though
her own servants took every opportunity to persuade her that she was a
very worthless person--she seemed to think a removal would be best.
Accordingly Jonathan Catchpole changed his abode, and, from a regular
workman on that farm, became a jobbing labourer wherever he could find
employment. He and his family lived at a lone cottage on the borders of
Nacton Heath. Edward became a shepherd's boy, and Margaret had serious
thoughts of once more going out to service; but where? Alas! she
remembered how happy she had been in her first place, and the very
remembrance of that happiness made her shrink from having to relate to
her former benefactor the then miserable consequences of her first
attachment.

Laud's father shared in the general stigma attached to his son's
name--he was accused of conniving at the youth's excesses, and lost his
situation as ferryman of the government packets from Harwich to Languard
Fort. What miseries, heaped one upon the other, now fell with blighting
force upon poor Margaret!

But a greater trial just now awaited her--a dreadful conflict took place
below Felixstowe beach between the coastguard and Laud's crew. A run was
planned and put in execution from the Walton Marshes for
Woodbridge--carts were brought to the cliff, the coastguard, as was
thought, being attracted to Sizewell Gap, and everything being open
before the smugglers. The cargo was landed, and the run began, when the
preventive-service men, who had been secretly informed of the intended
_ruse_ at Sizewell Gap, came out of their hiding-place in a double band,
headed by Lieutenant Edward Barry, a brave young sailor, second son of
Mr. Henry Barry, a miller and farmer, of Levington Hill. The onset was
tremendous, and the resistance deadly; but might and right were on one
side, and bore down the stalwart forms of the violent smugglers.

Three of the crew were killed, and the others, unable to stand against
the assault, fled as well as they were able. Young Barry and Laud had a
severe personal encounter, in which the death of one or the other seemed
the determination of both. Laud was the most powerful man, but Barry was
the most expert swordsman; but what was the experience of the sword-arm
in so dark a night? The two commanders seemed to know each other even in
the darkness, for they fought with voices of encouragement to their men.
The smugglers had fled, and Laud began to fear he was alone; but the
pursuers, too, had gone, and still the two captains were contending. At
this moment the contest was most deadly--Laud had wounded young Barry by
a thrust. Though it was slight it was felt by the officer, and he
determined neither to ask nor to give quarter. Laud had driven him up
the side of a bank, and was in the act of giving a thrust at his heart,
as Barry, with the advantage of his situation, like lightning gave a cut
at his head, which at once went through his hat, and descended upon his
forehead. Down fell the smuggler like a thunderbolt, and another moment
the sword would have been buried in his side, had not Barry been
compelled to act on the defensive by the opposition of John Luff.

Finding a new antagonist, and being himself wounded, this young man
thought best to gather up his strength for a defensive retreat. He was
not pursued. Hearing some of his own men he called to them, and,
recognizing him, they advanced with him to the spot where, as Barry
supposed, Captain Laud lay dead. But Luff had thrown him over his
shoulder, and, being well acquainted with the marshes, had carried him
over some planks, and so escaped.




CHAPTER IV

DECEIT


Margaret was seated in her father's cottage, now no longer that happy
spot it used to be to her, but a change of abode had brought no rest
from the troubles and anxieties of her mind: that very day she had heard
of the dreadful encounter between the coastguard and the smugglers, and
the report of the death of Will Laud, the notorious commander.

Margaret heard of her lover's death, as may be supposed, with the
deepest emotion; but she was not satisfied that the accounts she
received were correct, and had serious intentions of going to the
ferryman's house to make inquiries for herself, when a rap came at their
lone door, and who should come in but the ferryman himself, the father
of Laud. The old man seemed to observe the altered state of the family
upon whom he intruded himself, and could not help saying, at once,--

"I bring you bad news, Margaret, very bad, and of my poor boy." The old
man paused, and Margaret's heart quailed, but in the next moment it
revived. "But he would have me bring it!"

"Is he not dead then?" exclaimed the poor girl, as with a bound, she
seized the aged ferryman by the arm; "is he not dead?"

"No, not yet--at least he was not when I left him two hours ago, and he
would make me come to you, and tell you he wished earnestly to see you
before he died."

"Where is he? where is he?" exclaimed Margaret.

"At my poor cot on Walton Cliff; but oh, Margaret, so altered, so
dreadfully marked, and so unhappy, that if you do see him I question
much if you will know him. But will you come and see him?"

"Will I?--that I will! Only you sit down and eat a bit, and I will soon
be ready."

It took but a short space of time for Margaret to make preparation for
her journey. Laud was alive, though ill, dangerously ill; still she
might be the means of restoring him, if not to health of body, at least
to a more healthy state of mind. She is ready, and the old man and
Margaret depart together.

"Is he much hurt?" was Margaret's first question, after they had
advanced beyond the heath on to the high-road; "is he much wounded?"

"I fear he is. At times he is like a madman, raving at everything,
cursing all smugglers and his own misfortunes. The fever is high upon
him; he glares wildly at the old woman I have got to do for him--calls
her a smuggler's hag; and then he mentions you, Margaret, and the tears
roll down his face, and he finds relief. His wound is on the forehead--a
deep gash, through the bone; and the pain he suffers from the dressing
is dreadful."

"Have you had a surgeon?"

"No, Margaret, no--I dare not: I fear lest he should betray himself. His
life would be forfeit to his country's outraged laws, and he would die a
more bitter death than now awaits him in my cot."

There ran a sensitive shudder through poor Margaret's frame as she
thought of the situation of her lover. Parental affection had been more
cautious than she would have been, and she secretly rejoiced. She
thought likewise of her own situation; but selfishness had no portion in
her soul. Laud might die! The thought was agonizing; but he would die,
perhaps, a true penitent. This was surely better than being suddenly
sent out of the world with all his sins upon his head. She felt thankful
for so much mercy.

"Does he ever seem sorry for his crimes?" she inquired of the old man.

"I cannot exactly say he does," was the reply, "though he speaks so
vehemently against his captain. I wish he saw his situation in a more
forcible light."

"Time may be given him for that yet, Mr. Laud; at least, I pray God it
may be so."

"Amen, say I; amen!"

"How did he find you out? How did he reach home?"

"He was brought here upon a comrade's back, a stout sailor, who came
accompanied by old Dame Mitchel, who, if report speaks truth, is well
acquainted with the smugglers. She says that John Luff, the captain's
mate, brought poor Will to her house; and when he learned that I was
living only half a mile off, he persuaded her to come and help me to do
for him. He brought him to me at night."

With conversation of this kind, the father and the maiden pursued their
course till they arrived at a very sequestered cottage, near the ruins
of Walton Castle, close to that celebrated spot where the Earl of
Leicester landed with his Flemings in A.D. 1173. "It stood upon a high
cliff, about the distance of a mile from the mouth of the Woodbridge
haven, two miles from the Orwell. At this time but few stones mark the
spot. There is little doubt that it was a Roman fortification, as a
great many urns, rings, coins, and torques, have been found in that
neighbourhood. It is supposed to have been built by Constantine the
Great when he withdrew his legions from the frontier towns in the east
of Britain, and built forts or castles to supply the want of them." So
says the old _Suffolk Traveller_.

Our travellers arrived at this lone cottage, where a faint, glimmering
light from the low window told that the watch was still kept at the sick
man's bed. The father entered first, and soon returned, telling Margaret
that she might come in, as sleep, for the first time since the night he
had been brought home, had overpowered Laud's senses.

By the faint gleam of that miserable light, Margaret perceived how
dreadfully altered were the features of her lover. He lay in a heavy,
hard-breathing, lethargic sleep, and the convulsive movements of his
limbs, and a restless changing of the position of his arms, told that,
however weary the body, the spirit was in a very agitated state; and,
oh! how deadly, how livid was his countenance! Scarcely could Margaret
think it the same she had been accustomed to look upon with so much
pleasure: the brow was distorted with pain, the lips scorched with
fever--a stiff white moisture exuded from his closed eyelids. A painful
moan escaped his heaving chest, and at last he surprised the listeners
by a sudden painful cry.

"Margaret, ahoy! Margaret, ahoy! Hullo! hullo! Don't run away. Here,
here! I want you!"

And then his limbs moved, just as if he was in the act of running after
some one.

The fever was evidently high upon him, and poor Margaret was herself
greatly afflicted at seeing his extreme suffering. She gave way to
tears, which affected the poor father so much that the old man could not
refrain from weeping. The woman alone seemed composed; as if she had
been accustomed to scenes of horror, she exhibited no signs of
tenderness or concern. She continued to mumble a piece of brown bread
which she held in her hand, lifting up her brows from time to time, and
darting her sharp grey eyes, first at the smuggler, then at the girl,
and then at the old man, but without uttering or seeming to hear a word,
or to feel a single human emotion.

As she looked upon her, a thought shot through Margaret's brain of no
very friendly nature toward the singular being before her--she could not
help thinking that this Moggy Mitchel was a sort of spy upon her lover.
How keen, how quick, how apprehensive is true love!

To prove that Margaret's suspicion was not altogether groundless, that
very night the old woman went out of the house, under pretence of seeing
what sort of night it was; and as Margaret sat watching by the bedside
of Laud, the moon, which was just rising above the summit of the cliff,
showed her, through the lattice, two dark figures standing together. She
could not, of course, distinguish their features, but the outlines of
their forms were very strong, and not to be mistaken--she was sure it
was John Luff and Dame Mitchel, and that they were in close conversation
on the verge of the cliff.

The old woman shortly returned to the room, and it was evident to
Margaret that something had excited her.

"We must get him well as soon as we can," were the first words she
uttered; and had not her former coolness and her late meeting upon the
cliff awakened in Margaret's mind some sinister motive prompting this
speech, she might have been deceived by it.

Margaret had the deepest and purest motives for desiring the young man's
restoration to health: she loved him, and she hoped to re-establish his
character, and to recover him not only from his sick-bed, but from his
state of degradation. But in all her efforts she found herself
frustrated by the interference of this beldame, who, as William
progressed towards recovery, was constantly keeping alive within him
some reports of the successes of the crew, of their kind inquiries after
his health, and the hopes they had of soon seeing him among them.
Independently of this, there came presents and compliments from Captain
Bargood, and these increased as Laud recovered.

Nothing so much stung Margaret's heart as to find that all her
attentions, prayers, entreaties, and admonitions, were counteracted by
the secret influences of these agencies; but her object was a righteous
one, and she did not slacken in her endeavours to attain it. She found,
as Laud gradually recovered, that he was fully sensible of his past
folly, and quite alive to the devoted affection she had shown to him;
but she found also that no touch of religious feeling blended with his
regret for his past conduct.

This gave her the deepest pang, for she would rather have heard him
offer one thanksgiving to the Being to whom all thanks are due, than
find herself the object of his praise and gratitude.

It was at this time that Margaret wished she had been a scholar. There
was a Bible in the cottage, an old black-letter edition, containing the
Book of Common Prayer, the genealogies recorded in the sacred
Scriptures, together with the Psalms of David, in metre, by Sternhold
and Hopkins, with curious old diamond-headed notes of the tunes to each
psalm.

Margaret would gladly have read the holy book to her lover, but she
might as well have had a Hebrew edition before her, for not a word could
she decipher. He could read, and her only way of inducing him so to do
was by expressing her desire to hear him read. She found this, however,
a difficult and dangerous task, for, independently of the distaste which
the old woman had to the Bible, she found her lover very restless and
feverish after any exertion of the kind. Where the spirit is unwilling,
how irksome is the task!

"How plain is that description you read to me this morning of our first
parents' fall," said Margaret one day, when the enemy was absent: "how
plainly it shows us the necessity of our denying ourselves anything and
everything which God has forbidden us!"

"It does, indeed, Margaret; but no man can help sinning!"

"I doubt that--I think Adam could have done so."

"Then why did he sin, Margaret?"

"You read to me, that the woman tempted him or persuaded him, and that
the serpent beguiled her into sin: so that the serpent was the author of
sin."

"Yes: and the woman was first deceived, and then deceived her husband.
You must admit that she was the worst of the two."

"I own that she was, and is the weakest; but her sorrows appear to have
been the greater, and she has been little better than a slave to man
ever since."

"Well, Margaret, well, you have been very kind to me, and I know now
that you are a good girl, and wish me to be good. I wish I may be
better."

"Do not only wish it, dear William, but pray to God to make you so, and
I do think that He will."

"Well, well, I will be better--yes, I will, if I get over this blow on
the head; but oh, how it aches! You must not bewilder me too much."

So did this interesting conversation cease, by the man's appeal to his
want of strength, when he was asserting a will of his own, which, though
bold in words, was but fickle in actions.

Every day, as her patient advanced towards recovery, was poor Margaret
more and more convinced that Laud wanted stability of purpose to resist
evil,--he was, like every passionate man, self-willed and wicked.
Margaret, though at this time uneducated, had been a very attentive
listener to all good instruction--she was far from being ignorant of
right and wrong. Her principles were good, and through her most eventful
years she exhibited but one great error, which was her blind passion for
the unhappy man whom she would have made, if she could, a better being;
and every day she found a more persevering enemy in Mrs. Mitchel, who
counteracted all her salutary influence with Laud. Silent and morose as
this woman was at times, she could be loquacious enough when it suited
her own purpose.

"I have," said she, one day, "just left a choice set of fellows upon the
beach, as merry a set, Will, as I ever saw, and all rejoicing in your
improvement. Luff holds your office until you join them again. They
have had fine success lately, since young Barry is laid by the leg. I
have brought you a box of raisins, and such a choice can of sweetmeats,
as a present from the captain."

"Ah! they are all good fellows, but I do not think that I shall ever
join them again."

"Pshaw, my lad! this is only a love-fit for the moment." (Margaret was
absent upon an errand.) "If that girl does not know what it is to have a
high-spirited young fellow like yourself for a lover, without making him
a poor, tame, milk-and-water poodle, why then she ought to make herself
always as scarce as she is at this moment. I have no patience with the
girl--she does not know her own interest. I suppose she would have you
stick to the plough's tail, or toil all day at the spade, and bring her
home a hard-earned pittance at the week's-end. Pshaw! Will, you are
formed for better things."

"But she's a good girl, Moggy," said Will.

"Oh, aye! the girl is well enough, and decent too. I don't mean to say
she would not make a chap a good sort of wife either, but she's not the
sort of girl for you, Will. She's no spirit about her. She don't see how
a young fellow like you can do better by her, in a bold, dashing way,
than by such tame, dull, plodding industry as her family use."

"No; but then she wishes to see me happy, and I might be popped off the
next skirmish."

"You always look on the black side of things. Here are your fellows
making their fortunes rapidly, and you talking of drudging on, in a
quiet, stupid way, with the chance of being informed against and
executed for your past doings. Young Barry won't easily forgive you."

"Nor I him, either," was the significant reply, with a clenching of the
fist and a grinding of the teeth, which proved how artfully the hag had
worked upon Laud's worst feelings.

Margaret, on her return, could perceive that her absence had been taken
advantage of to effect a purpose adverse to all her hopes.

Against all these disadvantages, however, Margaret combated with some
success, and by degrees had the happiness of seeing her patient get the
better of his sufferings. The wound would have healed sooner and better,
had Laud's mind been kept free from feverish excitement. It did heal up,
though not so well as Margaret wished--a frightful scar extended over
the _os frontis_, directly to the high cheek-bone. For a long time the
eye seemed as if it had perished, but as the fever abated its sight
returned.

It will be sufficient to record, that in due time Laud perfectly
recovered, and the services of his nurses became no longer necessary.

If at this time any situation had offered itself by which Laud could
have gained an honest livelihood, he would, probably, have accepted it,
and become an honest man; and in talking with Margaret of his future
life, he promised that she should never again hear of anything against
him. He would go to sea, and earn an honest livelihood, even if he was
obliged to serve a foreigner.

"Well, Laud, I will trust you again," said Margaret, on the day she took
her leave of him: "I will trust you again, William, though my heart
aches bitterly at parting with you, whilst you have no regular
employment, but I shall pray for you wherever I am. I shall probably go
to service soon, for I do not like to be a burden to my friends."

They parted affectionately, for Laud felt that he owed his life to her
care; and she, that all her hopes of future comfort in this life were
centred in his welfare. Yet that very night did William Laud meet his
former comrades, and was persuaded to join their crew at the Bawdsey
Cave, to assume the name of Hudson, and to become again neither more nor
less than a desperate smuggler.

We will not follow him through his career of guilt: suffice it to say,
that he contrived to send word to Margaret that he had entered into the
service of a Dutch trader, and was promised a future share of his ship.
He pretended to have quitted the society of the smugglers, who at that
time so infested the eastern coasts of this country; and as she heard no
more of his name, and received no more suspicious presents, she suffered
her heart to cherish the fond hope of his reformation.

The anticipation of days to come, and the promised pleasure of those
days, are always greater than are ever realized by mortals. It is,
however, one of the greatest blessings of life to anticipate good. The
hope, too, of another's welfare, and of being the humble instrument of
promoting the interest of another, is the sweetest bond of woman's
cherished affection. Truly may such be termed man's helpmate, who would
do him good, and not evil, all the days of his life.

Poor Margaret found, that the more she hoped for Laud's amendment, the
more constant became her attachment, the more she excused his past life,
and the more deeply her heart became engaged to him.




CHAPTER V

WILD SCENES


Margaret, true to her intentions of going to service, found a kind
friend in Mrs. Denton, who recommended her to Mrs. Wake, of the Priory
Farm, Downham Reach. Here, in September, 1792, she took up her abode as
servant-of-all-work. The whole farm-house was formerly the priory of a
small body of Augustine Monks, and was known by the name of the
Alneshbourne Priory. It is surrounded by a moat of considerable depth
and breadth, and was formerly approached by a drawbridge from the
southern side.

The site of this old house is still a most romantic and sequestered
spot. In front of it, along a pleasant green slope to the shore, runs a
rippling stream, which having passed through the moat, meanders along
the meadow down to the Orwell, whose broad waters look here like a
magnificent lake.

On either side of the valley rise the rich woods of Downham Reach; and
behind the house, in the green meadows, may still be seen, though now
covered in with a roof and used as a barn, the chapel of this
sequestered fraternity.

Lofty elms overshadow the summit of this ancient house, though they grow
upon the open space beyond the moat; and the woods of the owner of the
present house and the district, Sir Philip Broke, stand conspicuously
towering on the sides of the hills. The lover of peaceful nature could
not fail to be struck with the tranquil yet picturesque scenery around
this spot. Here Gainsborough, who, in his younger days, was much
encouraged by Dr. Coyte of Ipswich, loved to roam, and catch the
ever-varying tints of spring and autumn. Here Constable,--the
enthusiastic, amiable, but pensive John Constable, one of the best of
England's landscape-painters,--indulged himself in all the hopes of his
aspiring genius; and Frost, a native of Ipswich, one of the best
imitators of Gainsborough's style, and whose sketches are at this day
most highly esteemed, used to indulge himself in the full enjoyment of
his art.

At the period we write of--the year 1792--the Orwell's waves went boldly
up to the port, as new and briny as in the days of the Danish invasion.
Now they no longer wash the town. A wet-dock, with its embankments and
its locks, shuts out the ebb and flow of waters, and may be convenient
to the inhabitants of the place; but sadly interferes with the early
associations and recollections of those who, like the writer of this
narrative, passed their boyish years upon the banks of the Orwell.

But we must no longer wander from our narrative. Margaret, as servant at
the Priory Farm, conducted herself in so exemplary a manner, that she
soon gained the good will of her master and mistress, and the good word
of all the labourers upon the farm. Amongst these latter was a young man
who was particularly acquainted with Margaret's history, and whose name
has occurred in a previous chapter. This was no other than John Barry,
the elder brother of young Edward Barry, who so gallantly led the attack
upon the smugglers on the night in which Will Laud was supposed to have
been killed. John was well aware of Margaret's attachment and engagement
to Will Laud; and he knew the part his brother had taken in the
conflict; and believed, as Edward told him, that he had slain Margaret's
lover. Whether it was the sympathy which arose toward the poor girl
under these circumstances, or the real pleasure which he felt in her
society, it is certain that he became so deeply enamoured as never to be
able to root out of his mind this his first and last attachment.

This young man was a contrast in every respect to Will Laud. John Barry
was the elder son of a small farmer and miller at Levington, who, having
a numerous family, was anxious they should all be employed. John, as was
customary in that day, sought employment away from his parents' house.
He had asked their permission to let him turn his hand to farming for a
year; and as he was already a good ploughman, and understood the various
methods of culture, he readily found an employer. He was also as good a
scholar for that period as could be found in any of the adjoining
parishes. Added to this, he was a good-principled, steady, persevering,
industrious young man. His father was not badly off in the world for his
station. He it was who first discovered the use of crag-shells for
manure. His man, Edmund Edwards, finding a load or two of manure was
wanted to complete the fertilization of a field which Mr. Barry
cultivated, carried a load or two of the crag, which lay near the mill,
to make it up. He observed, that in the very place which he thought
would prove the worst crop, on account of the seeming poverty of the
soil carted, there arose the most luxuriant produce. Next year Mr. Barry
used it more freely, and found a more abundant recompense. He then
opened immense crag-pits, supplied the country around, and shipped a
large quantity at Levington Creek. By these means he became known as an
enterprising man. His second son took to the sea, and became active in
the service of his native coast. Another son went out to America, and
did remarkably well.

John went as head man to Mr. Wake, of the Priory Farm. When he left his
father's house, the worthy miller gave him one guinea, with this
advice--

"Many a man, John, has entered into the world with less than that, and
by industry, integrity, and good behaviour, has risen to usefulness and
respectability; and many a man, John, who has entered upon life with
thousands and thousands of those shining coins, has sunk to
worthlessness and degradation. Go, boy; be honest, sober, steady, and
diligent. Keep your church and God's commandments, John, and you will
prosper. But should misfortune ever visit you, remember that whilst your
mother and I live you will always find a welcome home. God bless you,
boy! God bless you!"

John left home, with a guinea in his pocket and with love in his heart.
He did well, even in his first situation. He lived in the farm-house
with Mr. and Mrs. Wake, about seven miles from his father's house. He
did not then dream that he should ever visit any distant shore connected
with his native country. His dreams were of home, industry, and peace.
He had enough--was contented--was well respected; had good health and
full employment, and was a burden to no one. From his constant habit of
witnessing the energy, and activity, and good disposition of the
youthful Margaret, and from a certain knowledge of her past misfortunes,
he imbibed a delicacy of interest in her behalf, which was shown to her
by repeated acts of respect, which others on the farm less delicate did
not care to show. Margaret herself perceived these attentions, and felt
grateful to him for them. Whilst some would now and then relate what
they heard of the wild adventures of Hudson the smuggler, John Barry
always carefully concealed any mention of matters which he could see
gave her pain. So cautious had been his advances towards a more intimate
acquaintance with Margaret, that no one on the farm suspected that John
Barry, the son of the well-to-do Mr. Barry, of Levington, was in the
least captivated by the humble maid of the Priory. Margaret, however,
suspected and dreaded that such might be the case; and she avoided him
as pointedly as she could, without offence to one whom she so much
respected. Barry, however, was too honest to conceal his feelings from
the only person he wished to know them. Returning one evening from work
along Gainsborough's Lane, he met Margaret, who had been to Sawyer's
farm upon an errand for her mistress.

"Margaret, you know I love you," said the young man, "though I do not
believe that any one upon the farm besides yourself has any idea of it."

"I feared you did, John, and it grieves me very much to hear you say
so."

"But why should it grieve you? I love you honestly, and will always do
my best to make you happy."

"Yes, John, I do not doubt you in anything you say, and I feel very
grateful to you for your kindness; but I cannot return your love."

"Why not, Margaret? Why should you not learn to like me? I am not indeed
like your former lover, but I think I love you quite as well."

"That may be also, John; but when I tell you that it is impossible for
me to suffer you to cherish such feelings, you will, I hope, not be
angry with me."

"I am not angry: I know your past attachment; but I hope that you do not
intend to live and die single because Laud is dead."

"No; but whilst he lives, John, I neither can nor ought to give
encouragement to any other."

"But he is dead!"

"I would let any one else but yourself suppose so."

"My brother Edward told me himself that he saw him fall."

"Yes, John, and your brother Edward thought that he gave him his
death-blow; but I am happy, for his sake and for Laud's, that it was not
so."

"Are you sure of this?" sighed the youth, as if he half regretted that
his brother had not done so. "Are you sure of this?"

"Quite so--quite so! To no one else would I speak it, but I am sure of
your goodness. I know you will not betray me."

"Never, Margaret, never!"

"Well, then, these very hands healed the wound which your brother gave
him. I myself nursed him through his dangerous illness; and I know at
this time that he is in a respectable foreign merchant's service, and as
well as ever he was."

This was a tremendous blow to the young man's prospects; an answer which
he did not in the least expect, and from which he could find no
encouragement. He begged Margaret's pardon for what he had said, which
was freely given, and a promise made on both sides never to divulge that
day's secret. Alas! this promise was broken by both, as we shall
presently see, at the very same moment.

But where is Laud, and what is he doing at this time? While the
honest-hearted girl is denying all attachment to any but himself, and
living upon the hope of his future welfare and well-doing, what is _he_
about?

He is standing at the Green Cottage, as it was called, on account of the
green shutters which used to shade its casements, close to Butley Abbey.
The dark-frowning ruin of this seat of the black canons of St. Austin,
formerly so grand and extensive, was then in a state of crumbling
desolation. Here, close against that magnificent old gateway, seemingly
in mock grandeur, was a very fine arch, surmounted with the arms of
Michael de la Pole, the third Lord Wingfield, Earl of Suffolk, who was
slain at the battle of Agincourt with Edward Plantagenet, Duke of York.

Not far from these ruins, with a mind somewhat partaking of the darkness
of that desolation, stood Laud and Luff in close conversation; the
subject of which was no other than Margaret Catchpole!

Luff had found out Laud's deep-rooted fancy for the maiden, and, villain
as he was, was proposing a deep-laid scheme for the destruction of the
poor girl, who at that very time was undergoing a severe trial of her
affection.

"I'll tell you what, Laud, the thing is easily to be done. We have
nothing to do but to run the cutter, at the beginning of our next
voyage, into Harwich Harbour, at the fall of the evening, when the mists
hide us from the shore; you and I can run up the Orwell in the gig, and
soon carry off the prize. Once on board, and she is yours as long as you
like."

"I think I shall leave the service and marry."

"And get a halter for your pains! No, Will; no, my boy; you are made of
sterner stuff than that. What! for the sake of a girl whom you may have
for many a cruise, and who will like you all the better for your spirit,
would you consent to run the land-robber's risk of being hanged? You
will soon have a new cutter, and your old crew; and though we may have a
long voyage, surely it will be far better to have your damsel with you,
though she may be unwilling at first, than to be living ashore in
continual fear of the officers of justice."

"But Margaret supposes me at this moment in a foreign ship, and in an
honest trader."

"Let her think so still. Only once get her on board the _Stour_, and
never trust me if we don't quickly run over to Holland, get you decently
married, and you may settle with her on shore in a short time."

"Well, Luff, I think it might be done, and fairly, too; and if it be,
you shall have half my share of the prize upon the next run."

"'Tis a bargain--'tis a bargain! and when we next meet in Bawdsey Cave,
our first trip shall be for the harbour. In the meantime, let us enjoy
ourselves as we can."

The Green Cottage just mentioned, was one of those places hired by
Captain Bargood, on the eastern coast, which was always kept neat, and
ready for his occupation, by a dame whom he permitted to live in it
rent-free, and paid her something extra too for housekeeping. This was a
place of resort for his captains when out of immediate employ, when his
ships were repairing or building, at home or abroad. The method he took
to secure their services, and to keep them in readiness for the sea, was
to initiate them into the mysteries of poaching when on land.

So well did this bold fellow play his cards, that his men seldom wanted
employment.

Game they always had, in season or out of season--no matter--they stuck
at nothing! If they wished for a good custard at Whitsuntide, and made
of the richest eggs, they would have pheasants' and partridges' eggs by
hundreds. In fact these smugglers were as well known for poachers by
many of the people on the coast, as they were for dealers in contraband
goods. They, too, enjoyed the keen zest of the sportsman in a tenfold
manner, if the excitement of the field, the danger of the enterprise,
and the success of the sport, be any criterion by which the pleasure of
such things may be estimated.

Tame, indeed, they considered the turn-out of the Marquis of Hertford,
with his green-brogued keepers, and their double-barrelled guns and
brushes, for a walk, or rather a stand, at the end of a plantation,
where the pheasants rose in a shower, and were killed like barn-door
fowls. They often saw the noble sportsmen turn into those coverts,
against which they knew they had been such successful poachers the very
night before.

If hairbreadth escapes, contests with keepers, making nets, snares, and
gins, were amusements to these fellows, they had enough of them. They
could, upon occasion, bribe an unsteady keeper, or make him drunk, and
go his beat for him. All manner of desperate adventures were their
pleasures. Sometimes their society was courted by farmers and others,
who chanced to know, and would occasionally entertain them. Their
knowledge of all that was going on in and out of the country made them
welcome visitors to others; and in a very dangerous period of our
struggle at Flushing, when an order from the coast was to be carried in
spite of danger and difficulty, the intelligence and spirit of these men
were made use of by some in power, who could never countenance them
openly.

One instance of a singular kind of frolic may here be mentioned, which
might have been of serious consequence to a young man of fortune.

This gentleman resided in his own house, and upon his own estate, not
far from Hollesley Bay; and though possessed of many broad acres,
abundantly supplied with every species of game common to that country,
yet, singularly enough, he was an exception to that prevalent habit of
all country gentlemen--the being a sportsman. The writer of these pages
has often heard him narrate the following facts:--

Laud, or rather Hudson, as he was then called (for Laud was generally
supposed to be dead), met this young man at the Boyton Alms-houses, when
the following conversation arose:--

"Good morning to you, captain. But little stirring at sea, I suppose?"

"We're ashore awhile upon a cruise."

"So I suppose. What tack do you go upon tonight?"

"That I know not, sir; but not hereabouts. We shall probably run down to
Orford."

"I know you are all good hands. I never went sporting in my life, and
never saw any poaching. Now, captain, it's no use being qualmish upon
the subject, but upon my word I should like to see how you poachers
manage to take your game. You need not fear that I should inform against
you, or take advantage of your secrets--for I am no sportsman, as you
know, and care as little about game as any man; but I have heard so much
of your adroitness, and of the methodical manner in which you proceed,
that I really should like to see it. Come, what shall I give you to take
me with you to-night?"

The smuggler looked at him with a very significant countenance, as much
as to say, "Are you in earnest? May I trust you?" It was very few he
thought he could trust; but there was a simplicity and honesty, a
straight-forward singleness of mind, and such a real, truthful
heartiness of character about the young man, that a far less shrewd man
than Laud could see there was no danger in him. So far from ever
intending evil to any one, he was kind even to a fault: witness his very
treatment of such a man as Laud. He had often seen him about his
marshes, or along the river's side, or in the village, or upon the
heath. He knew what Hudson was; and like many others in that retired
country, became an occasional talker with him, even upon the subject of
smuggling. He knew that his own horses came in for a share of
night-work, as well as his neighbours'; but he always found himself well
treated by the smugglers, and frequently acknowledged the receipt of
some acceptable present. He knew the habits of poaching which these
seamen enjoyed ashore, and he never interrupted them. His own lands were
always abounding in game for his friends, and he never knew that they
were poached.

"Well, captain, what say you? Will you take me?"

"That I will, with all my heart. Where will you meet me?"

"Where you like. Where shall it be?"

"Suppose my messmate and I call you at eleven o'clock? We can take a
glass of grog with you, and perhaps use your own cart and horse. We
shall most likely go to Iken or Orford. But I will see my mate, and have
everything arranged, and be with you by eleven."

The honest bachelor who had made this appointment with Laud and Luff,
had no idea of his temerity and of the danger of the deed. He saw only,
for the time, a certain mystery, which he wished to see unravelled, and
forgot all the penalties the law attached to it.

Our worthy bachelor received his two promising visitors at eleven
o'clock, having first sent every servant to bed, and parted with an aged
mother, who was ignorant, blessedly ignorant, of her son's movements at
such a time of night; Laud and Luff were let into the house; they came,
partook of his good cheer, and then opened upon the subject of their
campaign.

They told him their intention to have a drag over some of the stubbles
of the Marquis of Hertford's estate, between Iken and Orford, and they
instructed him in the plan of operation. Five men were to meet them in
the lane leading down into Iken Wood: they carried a net capable of
covering four furrows. Not a single word must be spoken. Five would drag
in front, and three behind; one was to hold the check-string, by which
an alarm was conveyed to every one who had hold of the net. In case of a
sudden jerk at this string, each person dropped his hold of the net, and
ran for the nearest hedge, where he concealed himself until he heard the
signal to join forces again, which signal was for that night the crowing
of a cock. When by sundry kicks in the net they found that game was
enclosed, they were to drop the net, at the sound of a small reed
whistle, so low as only to be heard by those who were at a short
distance. As the young host was only a novice, it was proposed that he
should take his station between Hudson and Luff, his two visitors.

After all proper hints had been repeated, and these worthies had
sufficiently regaled themselves, they all went to the cart-lodge; took
out the market-cart, harnessed the old chestnut gelding, something
between a cart-horse and a roadster, and off they started for as novel
an expedition as ever any man of fortune undertook.

Will the reader believe that a man of good character--aye, and as
honest, upright, good-natured, kind-hearted, and benevolent a man, as
any of his rank and condition--a man of an intelligent and unwarped
mind--and one who through life was looked upon as good a neighbour as
could be--should so forget himself as to trust his reputation, his
honour--his very life and happiness (for at that time the Game Laws were
very severe), between two as great rascals as ever stole a head of game,
or shot a fellow-creature, in the frenzy of their career?

The reader must imagine a man far above all want, and with every
blessing which an abundant fortune could supply, without any idea of
intending an affront to the lord of Orford, or any of his affluent
neighbours, seated in his own luggage-cart, with his very name written
in large letters, X. Y. Z., Esq., with his place of abode upon it! He
must imagine such a man, trusting himself between two notorious
characters merely for the spree of the moment, and purely for the sake
of curiosity running the risk of losing his character and his liberty,
and yet without a thought of his danger. Yet the tale is as true as it
is strange. Had not the writer heard the subject of it often declare the
fact, he should have believed it impossible.

They are off, however, and Luff is the driver. As if acquainted with his
horse, and the horse with him, they went at a rate which astonished even
the owner of the animal. He had said, "Let me drive, for I understand
his humour"; but he found that another understood his own horse as well
as himself. This brute was like a donkey in one respect. Except you gave
him a jerk with the rein, and at the same time gave a rap on the sides
of the cart, you could not get him to move. What, then, was the surprise
of the Squire to find that a stranger could make the old horse go as
well as he could. But not a word was to be spoken--so in silence he
brooded over the singular knowledge of his coachman, and gave him
credit for his driving, which he richly deserved. It was evident the old
horse had been in his hands before that night. On they went through
Boyton, Butley, the borders of Eyke, to the lane leading down to Orford.
Here at a certain gate they stopped, and on the other side of the hedge
were the five men with the net. The old horse was tied to the gate, the
net unrolled, spread out, and, without a single word being spoken, each
man took his station.

It was just the dawning of the morn, when they could hear the old cock
pheasants crowing to their mates, to come down from their perches to
feed. A rustling wind favoured the work; a large barley stubble was
before them, lying with a slope up to the famous preserve of Iken Wood.

As they proceeded onward, sundry kicks in the net told of the captured
game, which was regularly and dexterously bagged, by the leading man
passing on to the net to the place of fluttering, and wringing the necks
of the said partridges, pheasants, hares, rabbits, or whatever they
were; then passing them along the meshes to the head of the net, whence
they were safely deposited in the different game-bags of the foremen.

That this sport was as much enjoyed by these men as that enjoyed by the
best shot in the land; that these fellows were as expert in their
movements and as experienced as Colonel Hawker himself, and as bold as
any foxhunter in the country, is quite true.

There was one in that party whose courage was soon put to the test,
after a fashion which he little calculated upon, and never forgot.

After having bagged a considerable quantity of game, and swept several
acres of stubble, they were ascending the middle of the field, toward
the covert, when a sudden violent check of the alarm-string, which ran
from one to the other, told that they must drop the net, and be off. Off
they ran, helter-skelter, as fast as they could, to the nearest fence.

The Squire's heart was in his throat, and his courage in his heels, as,
with unwonted speed, he ran for his life to the fence. Into brake and
briar, amidst nettles and thistles, brambles and thorns, dashed the hero
of the night, with his top-boots sticking plounce into the mud, and, for
the life of him, not daring to extricate them, for fear of his being
heard and taken by the gamekeepers. The water oozed coolly over the
tops, conveying a gentle moisture to his feverish skin, and proving no
small consolation for his exertions.

There he lay in a dreadful fright, expecting every instant some stout
keeper's hand to seize him by the shoulders, and lug him out of his
hiding-place. Then it was for the first moment that he felt the
awkwardness of his situation. Reflection told him his danger. Though he
durst scarcely breathe, he felt his heart beat tumultuously against his
chest, at the thought of his folly and the possibility of detection.

"Oh, what a fool I am," thought he, "to run the risk of transportation
for such a freak! My name is on my cart; it is my horse, and the fellows
will swear they were in my employ. On me will be visited the vengeance
of the law. Lord Hertford will never forgive me. I shall have all the
magistrates, squires, noblemen, gentlemen, gamekeepers, and watchers up
in arms against me; and all for what?--for a foolish curiosity, which I
have thus gratified at the expense of my character. Oh! if I get out of
this scrape, never, never will I get into such a one again!"

In the midst of these painful impressions, the Squire's heart was
gladdened by the cheerful sound of "bright chanticleer." Never did cock
crow with a pleasanter sound than that good imitation, which told that
the coast was clear.

Some time did the Squire hesitate whether he should join the sport
again, and a still longer time did it take him to extricate his boots
from the mud, for he came out of the ditch minus the right leg covering,
and, after sundry tugs, and, when out, sundry shakings, &c., to turn out
the water, and then, as may be supposed, no small difficulty in getting
it on again, he managed to join his companions, who had almost felt
persuaded that he had totally decamped. The cause of this alarm was a
poor unfortunate jackass, which had strayed from the lane into the
stubble, and which, standing with his head and ears erect, had presented
to the foreman the appearance of a determined gamekeeper.

A few more acres were dragged, more game secured, and the party once
more safely seated in the cart. Two sacks of game lay in the bottom of
the vehicle, which were both deposited (saving one bagful for the host)
at the Green Cottage at Butley Moor. What a happy man was that host,
when, after all his dangers, he found himself again within his own
doors! happier still, when, after entertaining his free companions,
whose jokes upon his expressions of joy at escape were amusing enough to
them, though painfully interesting to himself; happier still was he,
when, at four o'clock in the morn, he let them out of his house, and
bade poachers and poaching good-bye for ever!

Nineteen beautiful cock pheasants were hung up in his larder; but so
ashamed was the Squire of their being seen there, that, before he
retired to his own bed, he put them all into a box, with hay, &c., and
directed them to Mr. Thomas Page, his wine-merchant, in London. His
_spolia opima_ were not mentioned till years had in some measure worn
off the rust of danger, and then he gave his friends and neighbours
reason to rejoice in his adventure, and that he had escaped
transportation.




CHAPTER VI

HARVEST-HOME


It was the evening before Harvest-Home, September 29, 1793, that a
sailor called at the back-door of the Priory Farm, Downham Reach, to ask
for a draught of fresh water. It was no uncommon thing for sailors to
call for such a purpose. Downham Reach was the nearest point at which
ships of large tonnage would usually anchor, and shift their cargoes in
lighters for the town of Ipswich, whence it was distant about four
miles. The crews of vessels frequently had to walk up to the town from
this spot; so that it was no uncommon thing for them, upon landing near
the Priory Farm after a voyage, to be glad of a sparkling draught of
clear water. The desired draught was handed to the sailor by the
ever-ready hand of Margaret Catchpole, who always took an interest in
men belonging to the sea.

"Is dis de Priry Barm?" asked the man, in broken English.

"This is the Priory Farm," was the quick and eager reply of Margaret.

"How bar to Gipswitch?"

"Four miles to Ipswich. What country are you from?"

"Mynheer be brom Hamsterdam. I lept me bessel in de harber. Mynheer de
Captan did 'mand me up to Gipswitch. 'E 'mand me 'top at Priry Barm to
tale von Margaret Catchpole dad 'e vou'd come up 'ere to-morrow, at nine
o'clock in de eve."

"What is your captain's name?"

"Von Villiam Laud."

The reader need not be told the rest of the conversation, which of
course related to the Captain. How he was? How he got on? Whose service
he was in? How he would come up? And where Margaret was to meet him? It
was all arranged that she should be upon the shore at nine o'clock, and
look out for a small sail-boat, which should come up the river and run
ashore against the creek: that the watchword should be "Margaret," and
that punctuality should be observed.

Margaret's quick understanding soon construed all the sailor said into
proper English, though she could not perceive that the man only feigned
a foreign accent and manner. He was indeed one of Laud's crew, an
emissary sent on purpose to decoy the poor girl on to the strand, that
he might carry her off to a foreign shore, against her own determined
purpose.

It is not to be wondered at that she should be a little agitated. Whose
heart would not have been so under similar circumstances? The expected
arrival of some fashionable and insinuating man of fortune into the
saloon of fashion has not agitated the heart of an amiable and
interesting young lady more sensibly than poor Margaret felt herself
fluttering within at this peculiar time. It is a great question,
however, whether any high-spirited damsel could prevent the exposure of
her high feelings with more effect than this poor girl did hers, who not
only had her own interest to induce her so to do, but her lover's also.

The last day of September came, and with it all the bustle and pleasure
of Harvest-Home. No small share of work fell to Margaret's hands, who
had to prepare the harvest supper for fourteen men, besides women and
children.

At that time of day, all the single men lodged in the master's house,
and were expected to conform to all the rules, regulations, hours, and
work, of a well-regulated family.

Once in a year, the good farmer invited the married men, with their
wives and families, to supper; and this supper was always the
Harvest-Home. This was the day on which the last load of corn was
conveyed into the barn or stack-yard, covered with green boughs, with
shouting, and blowing of the merry harvest horn.

All the labourers upon the Priory Farm were assembled at six o'clock in
the evening: nine married men, and five single ones; the wives, and
those children who were old enough to come to the feast, together with
the boys, four in number, who had to work upon the land.

A picture fit for the hand of Wilkie was exhibited in that ancient
farm-house. It is surprising that no good artist should have painted The
Harvest Supper. The Rent-day, Blindman's-buff, The Fair, The Blind
Fiddler, or any of his celebrated works, could scarcely afford a more
striking subject for the canvas, or the printseller, than The
Harvest-Home. Such a scene may have been painted, but the writer of
these pages has never seen it described, though he has often witnessed
it in real life, and has shared with innocent pleasure in its rustic
joy.

Margaret received great assistance from some of the married women. One
pair of hands could not, indeed, have prepared sufficient eatables for
such a party:--smoking puddings, plain and plum; piles of hot potatoes,
cabbages, turnips, carrots, and every species of vegetable which the
farmer's lands could produce--beef, roast and boiled, mutton, veal, and
pork, everything good and substantial; a rich custard, and apple-pies,
to which the children did ample justice, for all were seated round this
well-furnished table in the old kitchen, celebrated for its curious roof
and antique chimney-piece.

The lord of the feast, or head man in the harvest-field, took his
station at the head of the table, whilst the master of the house, and
his wife, his sister, and even his daughter, were the servants of the
feast, and took every pains to gratify and satisfy the party.

Poor labourers are not the only class in England fond of a good dinner.
There are hundreds and thousands, with half the appetites of these
joyful sons and daughters of the sickle, who glory in a feast. How often
is the rich table spread with every delicacy, and at an enormous cost
the greatest rarities provided, and a group of lords and ladies seated
thereat! Things just tasted and dismissed, and all due ceremonies
performed, the company rise without any satisfaction, and return to
their homes grateful to nobody; sometimes hungry and dissatisfied, moody
and contentious; disappointed, disaffected, tired, and palled by the
very fashion of the thing, in which there has been no enjoyment and no
thankfulness.

It was not so at this rustic feast. Simplicity and pleasure sat upon
each face. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, felt thankful to God
for their master's prosperity, and received his attentions with
unaffected gratitude.

After the feast, and a flowing jug or two of brown ale had been emptied,
the wives and children were invited into the best parlour to tea and
cakes, whilst the merry reapers were left to themselves, to enjoy in
their own way the stronger harvest ale, which was just broached by the
hand of their master.

Margaret had done her duty well, and was busily engaged washing up the
dishes as fast as she could, that she might, in the midst of this
bustling evening get her work sufficiently forward not to be missed,
should she run down to the shore.

"Boy, take the can to the girl and have it filled"; for the master had
deputed Margaret to draw whatever ale was called for.

This was soon done, and the boy returned just as the old clock struck
eight.

Margaret heard with a fluttering heart the songs, according to custom,
commencing; and getting her work well forward, she resolved, after the
next can of ale was replenished, to be off.

Accordingly, she ran up the back stairs, and brought down her bonnet and
shawl, which she left behind the staircase-door, and anxiously awaited
the moment to be off duty. She had put every plate in the rack, laid all
the iron spoons in the drawer, cleaned the spit, and placed it, bright
and shining, over the chimney-piece. All the skewers had been strung,
all the knives and forks washed and wiped, boilers, saucepans,
gridirons, and the rest of the culinary utensils cleaned, and placed in
their proper places; in short, scarcely any one would have believed that
they had that day been used. Clean they were, and cleaner the
well-washed face and hands of the active girl, who had finished her
work, and prepared herself for an interview with one whose image had
been graven on her mind through every period of her short service.

At last she heard that welcome sound, more enchanting to her ear than
any song which the young men had sung: "Boy, take the can to Margaret!"

It was soon replenished; and scarcely was the kitchen-door closed, ere
the bonnet and shawl were put on, the latch of the door lifted up, and
the bright rising moon shining gloriously in at the door. Happy moment!
what pencil could portray the features of that face upon which the moon
so clearly shone on that September night?

Poor girl! 'twas a breathless moment of long anticipated pleasure to thy
good and honest heart, such as many a one, like thee, may have
experienced; but such as none, be she who she may, could have more
anxiously endured.

At last, Margaret is off.

The pleasure of the feast continued; and, as the foaming ale went round,
the spirits of the youths arose, and each bachelor who could not sing
had to toast his favourite lass.

There were singular disclosures made at this season, which generally
indicated the future destiny of the bachelor. It was amusing enough to
hear those who did not choose to tell their lover's name attempt to
sing, as "the lord" called upon him for a toast or song.

"We haven't had Jack Barry's song," said a sly fellow of the name of
Riches, who himself was one of the best singers in the party. "Please,
sir" (for such the lord of the feast was styled that night), "call upon
Jack for his song."

Now, the labourer at the head of the table knew that Jack could not
sing. He did not suppose, either, that he had any favourite lass; for no
one had seen Jack flirting, or directing his attentions towards any
favoured individual. The lord, however, was bound to do his duty, when
so urged; he therefore said, "John Barry, we call upon you for a song."

"I cannot sing, master: I wish I could," was the reply.

"Then you must give us a toast; and you know what it must be--'Your
favourite lass.'"

Jack hung down his head in solemn silence, for he felt extremely
awkward. He _had_ a favourite lass; he felt he had; and no one knew it
but himself; and if he should toast her, he felt that he should be
laughed at. He remained in a state of painful suspense, between doubt
and fear. A thousand thoughts revolved in his mind, whether he should
not give a fictitious name, or some one whom he had heard of, or only
knew by sight; but then appeared the certainty of some of them
congratulating the person he might happen to mention, and so bringing
him into a scrape. He thought also of dissimulation, and a lie, at which
Jack's honest nature revolted. But if he should really tell his
sweetheart's name! He felt for her, he felt for himself, and he remained
a long time without uttering a word.

"Come, Jack, my boy, what's the matter? Give us your favourite lass!
What makes you flinch, my lad?"

Jack remained silent, until some began to think he meant to shirk the
subject. The fact is, that Jack had really some notion of bolting, and
once or twice he cast a sidelong glance at the door, with the full
intention of an escape; but Will Riches, perceiving this, most
unceremoniously bolted the door; and, as the jug stood close by him, he
declared he would know Jack's sweetheart before another drop should be
drunk.

"Come, Jack," says he, "why not give us at once the girl you love
best?"

"Because she does not love me," was Jack's quick reply.

Here was a most significant glance from one to another round about the
room; and more than one whispered to his neighbour, "Who is it?" Not a
soul could tell, for no one had the slightest idea who the girl could be
who would refuse so honest a fellow as Jack Barry. Some began to think
that Jack had stepped out of his latitude, that he had dared to aspire
to the master's daughter; some, that it was Matilda Baker, the grocer's
girl; others set it down as Lucy Harper, of Stratton. But, be the damsel
whom she might, Jack's speech had set such a spirit of curiosity
a-working, that the married men hoped to know for their wives' sake, and
the single ones for their mistresses' amusement. Jack had got further
into the mire by his floundering, and every one saw that he was
struggling all he could to escape.

"Well, Jack, who is she? Who is she? Do we any of us know her?"

"Yes, all of you."

Here they were all out at sea again.

"It must be the master's fair daughter," said Ned Palmer to his
neighbour.

"I don't think it," was the reply; "but he is not willing to tell us,
and it's hardly fair to press him."

"It's a law, a positive law--I've told mine," says John Ruddock, "and I
don't see why he should flinch from the name. I must have it."

"The name! the name!" exclaimed one or two resolute fellows.

A tear stood in Jack's eye. This might be a good joke to some; but the
elders of the party, who saw it, especially honest Tom Keeble, the lord
of the evening, felt for the young man that respect which induced him to
make a sortie or parley, in the hope of giving him relief.

"Riches," said he, "as the jug stands by you, I shall call upon you for
a song. Our young friend may, by the time you have entertained us, have
recovered himself; and, after your song, I shall order the jug round to
drink your health, if we do not get the lass."

Now, Will prided himself upon his vocal powers, and was a bold, forward
fellow. He had no objection to sing, nor had any of the company any
objection to his song; and, truth to tell, all hoped the jug of brown
ale would not be stopped long, either for the song or for "the favourite
lass." So Will sang his song.

"I'll sing you a new song," says he. "I'll sing you one in which you can
all join in chorus in the house, as you have often done in the field.
I'll sing you--

                'HALLO LARGESS.'"

Accordingly, he lifted up his voice, and sang this truly happy and
appropriate harvest song:--

            Now the ripened corn
            In sheaves is borne,
            And the loaded wain
            Brings home the grain,
    The merry, merry reapers sing a bind,
    And jocund shouts the happy harvest hind,
            Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!

            Now the harvest's o'er,
            And the grain we store,
            And the stacks we pull,
            And the barn is full,
    The merry, merry reapers sing again,
    And jocund shouts the happy harvest swain,
            Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!

            Now our toil is done,
            And the feast is won,
            And we meet once more
            As we did of yore,
    The merry, merry reapers sing with glee,
    And jocund shout their happy harvest spree,
            Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!

            Now the feast we share--
            'Tis our master's fare,
            May he long, long live
            Such a treat to give,
    And merry, merry reapers sing with joy,
    And jocund shouts the happy harvest boy,
            Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!

            Now we join in song
            With our voices strong,
            And our hearts are high
            With our good supply,
    We merry, merry reapers joyful come
    To shout and sing our happy Harvest-Home,
            Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Largess!

The spirit of this song is in the chorus, which is peculiar to the
eastern counties of this kingdom. So "Hallo Largess!" may be well
understood here, but in many parts of the country is quite unknown. At
the time of harvest, when the men are reaping down the fields, should
their master have any friends visiting his fields, the head man among
the labourers usually asks a largess, which is generally a shilling.
This is asked not only of friends and visitors, but of strangers
likewise, should they pause to look at the reapers as they bind up the
sheaves.

At evening, when the work of the day is over, all the men collect in a
circle, and Hallo, that is, cry, Largess. Three times they say, in a low
tone, "Hallo Large! Hallo Large! Hallo Large!" and all, hand in hand,
bow their heads almost to the ground; but, after the third monotonous
yet sonorous junction, they lift up their heads, and, with one burst of
their voices, cry out, "Gess!"

Varieties of this peculiar custom may exist in some districts. Sometimes
the man with the most stentorian lungs will mount an eminence and lead
the rest, who join in chorus. They generally conclude the ceremony with
three shouts, and then "Thank Mr., Mrs., Miss, or Master" (as the case
of the donor may be) "for his largess." Whence the origin of this
practice, is not now easily to be ascertained. It was much more common
than it is. The habit of dividing the gains, too, at the harvest frolic,
is going fast out of fashion; nor is its substitute an amendment.

At the period here mentioned, and in the Priory Farm, it was customary
for the lord to divide the largess among the men, women, and children;
which formed a species of family nest-egg, to provide against some
urgent necessity. The custom has now degenerated into an ale-house
revel, and the money is all drunk out for the benefit of no one but the
publican.

"Will Riches, your health!" said the lord, as, at the same moment, he
turned the contents of a canvas-bag upon the table, which exhibited a
very good aspect of liberal contributions. The reader may suppose that
every master-tradesman who visited the farm had to give his share, and
that the lord had not been unmindful of his solicitations, when, upon
counting the contents of the bag, there were found one hundred shillings
and sixpence. This exactly gave five shillings a-piece to the fourteen
men, half-a-crown ditto to the nine women, and two shillings each to the
four boys.

The division of this sum gave great satisfaction; and our persecuted
friend, Jack Barry, had almost unperceived accomplished a successful
retreat in the interesting moment of pocketing the cash. But the
watchful songster had him in his eye; and, as he rose to thank the
company for the honour done him in drinking his health, he intercepted
Jack in the act of drawing back the bolt of the door.

"I think this is the best place I can speak from; and, as Jack is so
anxious to be off, perhaps to see his sweetheart, I hope he'll give me
the opportunity of proposing her health in his absence, for not until he
has given us her name shall the bolt be drawn."

The poor fellow had counted on his escape, but little thought of the
extremity of ridicule he was thus bringing upon himself. At length,
urged on all sides, he could resist no longer, but, in a kind of
ludicrous despair, he exclaimed--

"Well, then, I'll toast the health of Margaret Catchpole!"

The pencil of Wilkie could alone describe the wild burst of unrestrained
glee at this declaration.

"Margaret Catchpole!" was as suddenly responded in surprise by men,
women, and children; and such grinning countenances, and coarse
laughter, and joking congratulations, were beginning to show themselves,
that Jack, no longer able to endure their gibes, bolted to the door,
and, finding no resistance to his will, made his exit, amidst the roars
of his companions, who vociferated, with a cheer, "The health of
Margaret Catchpole!"

Jack fled precipitately from this scene of tumult and confusion, and, as
he passed the little foot-bridge over the stream from the moat, he still
heard the rude merriment he had excited. The moon rose brilliantly over
the little chapel in the dark background, and was reflected upon the
water in a line with the bridge, and showed Jack's figure in darkness
crossing the light plank; but he was soon in the shadow of those lofty
trees, which darkened the footpath towards the gamekeeper's cottage. He
had instinctively taken this path because it led to Levington, his
father's house; and he then remembered that parent's parting words--"If
ever you feel yourself unhappy, my boy, remember you have a home here,
in which, as long as your mother and I live, we shall be happy to give
you a welcome."

Jack was really unhappy, and he had some cause for feeling so, though he
felt that it lay not with himself. He knew that he had spoken the truth,
though it had cost him a severe pang; and whilst he felt much grief at
the thought of the jeers and quizzings he should meet with, and the
annoyances he might occasion the poor girl whom he really loved, he had
still spoken the truth, which he was not ashamed to confess. He was
arrested in his progress by the voice of John Gooding, the old
gamekeeper of the great Squire of Nacton--Philip Broke.

"Who goes there?" was his question.

"John Barry," was the reply.

"Where now, Jack--where now?"

"What, Mr. Gooding, is it you? Has the tide turned? Can I walk along the
shore to Levington?"

"The tide has only just turned; but, if you take the wood-path for a
while to Nacton, you may then, if you like it, keep the shore along
Orwell Park, and pass the old Hall to Levington. But what makes you
leave good company at this time o' night?"

"I have left them all very merry at the harvest supper, but I had a mind
to see my friends."

"Well, Jack, had it been any other man upon the farm, I should have been
suspicious of you as a poacher; but I know you well, and can believe
you. I should not trust some that you have left behind. I was just going
down to the Priory, to see how you lads fared to-night."

"Well, Mr. Gooding, you will find them all very glad to see you, and no
doubt they will make you welcome; but will you trouble yourself to let
master know where I am gone to-night, that he may close his doors
without expecting to see me?"

"That I will; and, when I get there, I will propose your health, Jack,
during your absence."

"Do so, Mr. Gooding; and tell them all, they have my hearty good wishes
for their health and happiness."

"Good-night."

"Good-night."




CHAPTER VII

THE CONFLICT


But where is Margaret all this time? She is on the shore, casting an
anxious eye upon the waters. The moon is shining with such perfect
brightness, that she can see across the river, though it be nearly two
miles from the strand at Downham Reach to Freston Tower. She looks
towards the dark shades of Woolverstone, and with a lover's anxious eye,
fancies she can descry a sail. A sail there was; but it came very slowly
on, though a breeze reached the spot where poor Margaret was standing.

In that old vessel, seated at the helm, was as extraordinary a character
as ever sailed upon the waves of the Orwell; and as he will be no
insignificant actor in some succeeding scenes of this work, he shall be
here introduced to the notice of the reader. He is thus described in the
_Suffolk Garland_.

"The ancient fisherman whose character is here portrayed is not a mere
creature of the imagination, but an eccentric being, once resident in
the parish of St. Clement, Ipswich, by name Thomas Colson, but better
known by the appellation of Robinson Crusoe. He was originally a
wool-comber, and afterwards a weaver; but a want of constant employment
in either of these occupations induced him to enter into the East
Suffolk Militia. Whilst quartered at Leicester, he learned, with his
usual ingenuity, the art of stocking-weaving, which trade he afterwards
followed in this county. But this employment, in its turn, he soon
relinquished, and became a fisherman on the river Orwell. His little
vessel (if vessel it might be called, for every part of it was his own
handiwork) presented a curious specimen of naval patchwork, for his
extreme poverty did not afford him the means of procuring proper
materials. In this leaky and crazy vessel, it was his constant custom,
by day and by night, in calms and in storms, to toil on the river for
fish. His figure was tall and thin; his countenance meagre, yet
striking; and his eye sharp and piercing. Subject to violent chronic
complaints, with a mind somewhat distempered, and faculties impaired, he
was a firm believer in the evil agency of wizards and witchcraft.... His
mind was so haunted with the dreams of charms and enchantments, as to
fancy that he was continually under the influence of these mischievous
tormentors. His arms and legs, nay, almost his whole body, was encircled
with bones of horses, rings, amulets, and characts, verses, words, &c.,
&c., as spells and charms to protect him against their evil
machinations. On different parts of his boat was to be seen 'the
horseshoe nailed,' that most effective antidote against the power of
witches. When conversing with him, he would describe to you that he saw
them hovering about his person, and endeavouring by all their arts to
punish and torment him. Though a wretched martyr to the fancies of a
disordered imagination, his manners were mild and harmless, and his
character honest and irreproachable. But, however powerful and effective
his charms might be to protect him from the agency of evil spirits, they
did not prove sufficiently operative against the dangers of storm and
tempest. For, being unfortunately driven on the ooze by a violent storm
on the 3rd of October, 1811, he was seen, and earnestly importuned to
quit his crazy vessel; but relying on the efficacy of his charms, he
obstinately refused; and the ebb of the tide drawing his bark off into
deep water, his charms and his spells failed him, and poor Robinson sank
to rise no more."

The writer of these pages knew Colson well. He has often, when a boy,
been in his boat with him; and always found him kind and gentle.

The old man who sat at the helm of his crazy vessel, now toiling up the
Orwell, was a perfect fisherman, patient, quiet, steady, active, and
thoughtful. He had enough to employ his mind as well as his body, and
too deeply was that mind engaged. The whole legion of evil spirits
seemed to be his familiar companions, or rather his incessant enemies.
He knew all their names, and their propensities; how they visited and
afflicted men; and his great study was, how to prevent their malice
taking effect upon himself or any one else. He would converse with them,
and parley with them; he would seem to suffer when any of them took him
by surprise and found him off his guard. The loss of any one of his
numerous charms was sure to occasion the visit of that very demon from
whose attacks it was supposed to defend him. He has often been tried by
intelligent persons, anxious to discover if he really invented a new
tale for each spirit; notes were kept of the name and the peculiar
temper he attributed to each; and, months afterwards, he was questioned
again and again upon the same points, but he never faltered--never
attributed a wrong direction to any one--but was as accurate and certain
as on the first day he spoke of them.

The whole purport of these attacks was to persuade Robin to do some
wicked deed, at which his mind revolted; and when they could not prevail
against him, they used to seem, to his suffering mind, to torment him,
sometimes to pinch him, sometimes to pelt him, at others, to burn or
scald him, pull his hair off his head, to pull his ears, his nose, or
his arms; and, under all these seeming attacks, the old man's
countenance would exhibit the species of suffering resembling the
agonies of one really under such torture. No one could persuade him that
it was imaginative; he would shake his head and say, "I see them
plainly--take care they do not visit you!"

He was a very kind friend to many who were afflicted; and never saw a
person in distress whilst he had a fish in his boat, or a penny in his
pocket, and refused to help him.

From the great encouragement he met with, and the friends who were
always kind to him, it is supposed that he might have laid by a
sufficiency for his latter days, for at one time he had amassed enough
to have purchased a new vessel, but in an evil hour he was induced to
lend it to an artful villain, who represented himself in great distress,
but who ran off with the whole.

It was curious to see the old man whilst repairing his boat, which was,
when given to him by Mr. Seekamp, but a wreck, as it lay upon the mud
near Hog Island. It was curious to see him, whilst plying his hatchet,
suddenly stop, seat himself on a piece of timber, and hold parley with
one of the demons, who, in his frenzy, he fancied attacked him. After
searching about his person, he would suddenly catch up a talisman, which
shown to the enraged spirit would send him off, and leave the tormented
in peace. His delight was visible in the chuckling joy of his speech, as
he returned triumphantly and speedily to his accustomed work.

Colson, who sat at the helm of his vessel, which creaked heavily under
the breeze as it sprang up, was in one of his moods of reverie, when,
stooping down and straining his eyes to windward, he saw a sail. It was
a small boat, which seemed to have got more wind in her canvas than
Robin could obtain.

On came the boat; and the breeze began to swell the many-coloured sail
of the bewitched barque; but Robin's canvas was heavy compared with the
airy trimming of the feathers of the little duck that followed him. Like
a creature of life, she skipped along, and soon overtook the old
fisherman of the Orwell.

"What ship ahoy! What ship ahoy!" exclaimed a gruff voice from the boat
below, as Robin, leaning over the stern of his clumsy craft, looked
closely into her with an eager eye.

"It's only old Robinson Crusoe," replied the other. "You may speak long
to him before you know what he means, even if you get any answer at
all."

"Ahoy! ahoy!" was, however, the old man's reply. "You've got the foul
fiend aboard. What are you up to, Will? I know that's Will Laud's voice,
though I haven't heard it lately. Whither bound, Will? whither bound?"

"Confound the fellow!" muttered Will. "I never heard him say so much
before. The foul fiend always sails with him. But give him a good word,
John, and a wide berth."

"Heavy laden, Robin? heavy laden? You've a good haul aboard. Crabs, or
lobsters, or crayfish--eh, Robin? turbot, plaice, or flounders? soles,
brill, or whiting? sanddabs, or eels? But you've got plenty, Bob, or I
mistake, if not a choice. The tide is falling: you'll never reach the
Grove to-night."

"I shall get up in time, Will. You've lightened my cargo. You've got a
pleasant companion aboard. You've got my black fiend on your mainsail.
There he sits, pointing at you both, as if he had you in his own
clutches. Take care he don't drive you aground. He sticks close to the
sail, Will."

"Heave ahoy! heave ahoy! Good-night!" and away bounded the boat, which
was then passing Pin Mill, in the widest part of the river, and steering
towards the shades of Woolverstone. The obelisk rose high over the dark
trees, pointing to the clear, moonlit sky, its pinnacle still tinged
with the last red light of that autumnal evening.

But the breeze freshening, the little skiff darted along the side of the
greensward, which sloped to the water's edge; and, as she passed, the
startled doe leaped up from her repose, and stamped her foot, and
snorted to the herd reposing or browsing on the side of the hill.

Woolverstone Park, with its thick copses and stately trees, whose roots
reached, in snaky windings, to the very shore, was now the range along
which the barque skirted till it came opposite the white cottage, which
stands on a small green opening, or lawn, slanting down to the river.

The park boat was moored against the stairs, and a single light burned
against the window, at which a white cat might be seen to be sitting. It
was a favourite cat of the gamekeeper's, which had accidentally been
killed in a rabbit-trap, and, being stuffed, was placed in the window of
the cottage. Visible as it always was in the same place, in the broad
day and in the clear moonlight, the sailors on the river always called
that dwelling by the name of the Cat House; by which it is known at the
present day. High above it might be seen the mansion, shining in the
moonbeam, and many lights burning in its various apartments--a sign of
the hospitality of W. Berners, Esquire, the lord of that beautiful
domain.

But the two sailors in the boat were little occupied with thoughts about
the beauty of this scene, or the interest that might attach to that side
of the water. Their eyes were bent upon the opposite shore; and, as they
sailed along, with a favourable wind, they soon passed the boathouse and
the mansion of Woolverstone.

"Luff, do you think we shall be lucky? I'd venture my share of the next
run, if I could once safely harbour the prize from yonder shore."

"Why, Will, you speak as if the Philistines were to meet you. Who can
prevent your cutting out such a prize?"

"I know not; except that she is too difficult a craft to manage."

"Pshaw, Will! her cable may be easily cut; and once we have her in tow,
with this side-wind upon our sail, we shall be back again as quickly as
we came."

"Maybe, maybe, John; but I do not like being too desperate. I'll fulfil
my word, and give you more than half my share, which you know is a
pretty good one, if you will lend me an honest and fair play."

"I'll do nothing, Bill, but what you tell me. I'll lay like a log in the
boat, and stir not without the boatswain's whistle; and as to an honest
hand, I'll tell you what, Will, 'tis something as good as your own--it
will do by you as well as your own would do by me."

"Say no more, say no more! But look, John--I do believe I see her by the
shore."

"I see something white, but that's the cottage in the Reach."

"No, no, John; keep her head well up; my eyes are clearer than yours--I
see her flag waving in the wind. You may take your tack now, John--we
shall run directly across. Ease out the mainsail a bit, and I'll mind
the foresail. Bear up, my hearty! bear up, my hearty!"

With such words of mutual encouragement did these men of the sea, the
river, and the land, after passing Woolverstone Park, steer directly
across, towards Nacton Creek, that they might hug the wind under Downham
Reach, and move more rapidly, in shallow water, against the tide.

Any one would imagine, from their conversation, that they were intent
upon cutting out some vessel from her moorings, instead of a poor,
defenceless girl, who, trusting to nothing but the strength of true
love, stood waiting for them on the shore.

There stood the ever faithful Margaret, with palpitating heart, watching
the light barque, as it came bounding over the small curling waves of
the Orwell. In her breast beat feelings such as some may have
experienced; but, whoever they may be, they must have been most
desperately in love. Hope, fear, joy, and terror, anxiety, and
affection--each, in turn, sent their separate sensations, in quick
succession, into her soul. Hope predominated over the rest, and
suggested these bright thoughts--

"He is coming to me, no more to be tried, no more to be disapproved, but
to tell me he is an honest man, and engaged in honest service."

What a picture would she have presented at that moment to any genuine
lover of nature! Who could describe that eye of expectation, swelled as
it was with the animating hope of happiness to come! Who could describe
that heaving heart, answering as it did to every heave of the little
boat which came bounding to the shore! And what words shall speak that
sudden emotion, as the welcome sound of the grounding keel, and the rush
of waters following it, told that the boat was ashore, which conveyed to
a woman's heart all that she had so long looked for, hoped, and
feared--her lover's return!

The watchword, "_Margaret_," was spoken, and in another moment her joy
and grief, and love and hope, were, as it were, embodied in the embrace
of him she loved. Moments at such time fly too rapidly--an hour seems
but an instant. There is so much to say, to express, to ponder upon,
that the time is always too short. In honest love there seems to be no
fear, no death, no time, no change--a sort of existence indescribably
happy, indefinitely blissful, hopeful, and enduring.

In the heart of Margaret, the poor Margaret Catchpole, love was her
life; and as she stood upon that strand, and first welcomed her William,
she felt the purest, happiest, and holiest feelings of joy, rectitude,
and honesty--such as she never before had felt to such extent, and such
as she knew but for a few short moments, and often wished for again, but
never, never afterwards experienced.

Since his absence from Margaret, the character of Laud had become more
and more desperate, and to say that the same pure feeling burned in his
breast as did in Margaret's would not be true. No man who leads a guilty
life can entertain that purity of love in his heart which shall stand
the test of every earthly trial; but Margaret, like many real lovers,
attributed to him she loved the same perfection and singleness of
attachment which she felt towards him. Had she known that this pure
flame was only burning as pure and bright in the honest soul of Jack
Barry, she would, it may be, have rejected Laud, and have accepted him;
but she knew not this. She was not blind to the faults of the sailor,
though she was blinded to his real character. She expected to find a
love like her own, and really believed his affection to be the same to
the last.

"Now, Margaret," he at length exclaimed, "now's the time: my boat is
ready, my ship is at the mouth of the river. A snug little cabin is at
your service; and you will find more hearts and hands to serve you than
you ever had in your life."

"But where am I to go, William? What business have I on board your
master's vessel? He would not approve of your sailing with your young
wife. I thought you came to tell me you were prepared to marry me from
my own dear father's house, and to be a comfort and a blessing to my
aged mother."

"Margaret, you say you love me. My time is short. I am come here to
prove the sincerity of my love, and to take you, in an honest way, to a
country where we may be married; but if you send me away now, we may
never meet again."

"If you are true, William--if, as you say, your prospects are good, and
you have spared sufficient from your lawful gains to hire a cottage and
to make me happy, why not get leave of absence, and come and marry me in
dear old England?"

"I may not be able to get leave for a long time; and what difference
does it make whether we are married here, or in my employer's country?
Marriage is marriage, Margaret, in every place, all the world over."

"Yes, Will; but I have heard that marriages solemnized in some countries
do not hold good in others; and whether they did or not, I should like
those who first gave me birth to give me to you, William. My consent,
they know, is a willing one; but I should not be happy in mind, if I
were to leave my parents without their knowing where I was gone."

"What will it matter if they do not know it till we return? I almost
think you would like another better than me, Margaret."

"If you, William, were, in some respects, other than you are, I should
like you full as well; but, as you are, I love you, and you know it. Why
not come ashore, and marry me at our own church, and in the presence of
my own parents? As to any other, William, though another may like me, I
cannot help it, but I can help his having me."

"Then there is another that does love you!--is there, Margaret?"

A blush passed over Margaret's face as she replied, "Another has told me
so, and I did not deceive him. He thought you dead, or he would never
have ventured upon the subject. I told him he was mistaken, that you
were not dead, and that I still loved you, William."

"Then he knows I live, does he?"

"Yes."

"And you have betrayed me?"

"No: I have not told any one but him; and as he pressed his suit,
thinking that you were no more, I felt it to be only due to him to tell
him you were alive."

"And who is he, Margaret? You would not have been so plain with him if
he had not had somewhat of your confidence."

"He is an honest young man, and of very good and respectable parents--he
works at the Priory Farm; and seeing him, as I do, daily, I can form
sufficient judgement of his character to believe he would never betray
any one."

"Upon my word, Margaret, he must be a prodigy of perfection! Perhaps you
would like him to be bridesman upon our wedding-day?"

"I would, indeed, if he would like it, and you had no objection."

"What is his name?"

"John Barry."

"What! of Levington?"

"Yes."

"His brother is in the coastguard. It was he who gave me this, Margaret,
this cut upon my forehead--this, that you took such pains to heal."

"And it is healed, William; and your heart, too, I hope."

"No, no, no!--I owe him one!"

"Consider me his creditor, and pay it me; for I healed that wound, and
it brought with it reformation."

"I would not give you what I would give him."

"No, William; but you ought not to bear malice. His brother has been
very kind to me. I may say, he is the only one who never reproached me
with having been the mistress of a smuggler." (There was a fearful frown
upon the smuggler's brow at this moment, and a convulsive grasp of the
poor girl's hand, that told there was agony and anger stirring in his
soul.) "But you are not a smuggler now, William. I did not mean to hurt
your feelings. All reproach of that name has long passed away from my
mind."

William was silent, and gazed wildly upon the waters. One hand was in
his bosom, the other was in Margaret's hand, as she leaned upon his
shoulder. There might be seen a strange paleness passing over his face,
and a painful compression of his lips. A sudden start, as if
involuntary, and it was most truly so. It told of a chilliness on the
heart, that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. He actually
trembled.

"William, you are not well."

"No, I am not; but a little grog, which is in the boat, will soon set me
right again."

"Shall I run and fetch it?"

"No, no,--wait a bit, wait a bit. Hold--I was a smuggler! Yes, you said
I was a smuggler! The world despised me! You bore the reproach of my
name! Well, Margaret, the smuggler comes home--he comes to marry you.
Will the world believe him to be altered? Will they not call you, then,
the smuggler's bride?"

"No, William, not if you are really altered, as you say you are. I wish
you were in the British service; seamen are wanted now, and the smuggler
would soon be forgiven, when he once sailed under the flag of Old
England."

"'Tis too late, 'tis too late, now, Margaret! I will not say I may not
ever sail under our gallant Nelson. You might persuade me to it, if you
would only sail with me to Holland, and there be married to me,
Margaret."

"You have heard me upon this point: do not urge it any more. I have now
stolen away from duty, William, to meet you here, and I hope I shall
not be missed. Let me only hear you say you will come again soon, to
marry me at home, and I shall return to my service happy."

"I would if I could, but I cannot."

"Why not, William? why not?"

"Do not ask me why. Come, Margaret, come to the boat, and share my fate.
I will be constant to you, and you shall be my counsellor."

"Nay, William, do not urge me to forsake all my friends, and put all
this country in terror as to what has become of me. I cannot go on board
your boat. I cannot give you myself until God and my parents have given
me to you. So do not think of it; but, come again, come again!--yes,
again and again!--but come openly, in the sight of all men, and I will
be yours. I live for you only, William, and will never be another's
whilst you live."

"But how can I live without you, Margaret? I cannot come in the way you
talk of; I tell you I cannot. Do, then, do be mine."

"I am yours, William, and will ever be so; but it must be openly, before
all men, and upon no other terms."

"Then it will never be!"

"Why so?"

"Because I am a smuggler!"

"You have been such, but you are not so now. You have long forsaken the
gang; you are forgotten, and supposed to be dead. You may change your
name; but being changed in your life, it will only be known to me."

"And to Barry, too, Margaret; and then to his brother, and to numbers of
others, who will know me. I was recognized this very night."

"What, if you change your name?"

"My name is changed, but not my nature. I am a smuggler still!"

"No, William, no--you cannot be! You are in the service of an honest
man, though a foreigner."

"No, Margaret, I am not. You see before you the notorious Hudson. I am a
smuggler still!"

It was now poor Margaret's turn to tremble, and she felt more than
language can speak. She had heard of Hudson--Captain Hudson, as he was
called--but had no idea that her lover was that, or such a man. She felt
a revulsion amounting to sickness, a giddiness overcame her, and she
felt as if she must fall to the earth. Half carried, half urged, half
pulled along, she was unconsciously moving, with her eyes fixed fully
upon the boat, and approaching it, and she had no power to resist--a
sort of trance-like senselessness seemed to overpower her; and yet she
felt that hand, knew that form, and saw the waters and the boat, and had
no energy or impulse to resist. Her heart was so struck with the
deadliness of grief and despair, that the nerves had no power to obey
the will, and the will seemed but a wish to die. We cannot die when we
wish it, and it is well for us we cannot. Happy they who do not shrink
when the time comes appointedly; thrice happy they who welcome it with
joy, and hope, and love!

Margaret revived a little before she reached the boat, and resisted. The
firm grasp of the smuggler was not, however, to be loosed.

"You do not mean to force me away, William?"

"I must, if you will not go."

"I will not go."

"You shall--you must--you cannot help it! Do not resist."

"Shame, William, shame! Is this your love?"

"It is, Margaret, it is. I mean you fair."

"Your means are foul. Let me go, William! let me go!"

"Yes: you shall go on board my boat."

"Not with my life, William. I will go overboard!"

"Then will I follow you; but I cannot parley longer. Come on!"

The poor girl's struggles now became so violent, and her efforts to
escape so powerful, that Will Laud's utmost strength could not drag her
along the sand. Her fears, too, were increasing with his cruel violence;
and these fears were greatly increased by Laud giving a loud, shrill
boatswain's whistle. This awakened her to the sight of the trap into
which she had been beguiled, for, in another moment, she saw a man
spring from the boat, and hasten towards her. He came along with rapid
strides to join them, and soon, with horrid voice, exclaimed,--

"Your signal, Laud, is late indeed, but better late than never."

That voice was too well known by Margaret: 'twas the hated
countryman's--'twas John Luff's.

This fellow seized her in his arms, and, as a tiger would swing a fawn
over his back, so poor Margaret was swung over his shoulders in an
instant. The last effort a defenceless female can make is the shriek of
despair; and such a one was heard, as not only sounded through the woods
of Downham Reach, but reached the opposite shores of Woolverstone Park.

That shriek was heard by one whose heart was too true to nature to
resist the good motives which it awakened. Young Barry, as the reader
knows, was journeying toward the gamekeeper's cottage on the cliff, and
had just entered the wood in front of that dwelling, as the piercing
shriek struck upon his ear. He sprang over the paling in an instant, and
by the broad moonlight beheld a man carrying a female towards a boat,
and the other assisting to stop her cries. He leaped down the cliff, and
seizing a strong break-water stake, which he tore up from the sand,
rushed forward to the man who carried the female. It was a good, trusty,
heart-of-oak stake which he held, and which in one moment he swung round
his head, and sent its full weight upon the hamstrings of Luff. The
fellow rolled upon the sand, and over and over rolled the poor girl into
the very waves of the Orwell.

It was no slight work which Barry had now in hand. It was a bold deed to
attack two such daring villains, both well armed, and he with nothing
but a stake. But the consequences he neither foresaw nor dreaded; the
cause was a good one, and he left the issue to God. As quick as thought
he had already dashed one foeman to the earth; the other stood aghast,
beholding Margaret fallen into the water, and his comrade rolling on the
shore. He flew to help Margaret, and raising her up, determined not to
relinquish her, but stood opposed to the dauntless Barry.

"Villains, release the girl!" was his exclamation.

"It is Barry's voice!" shrieked Margaret. "Help, John, help!"

There was a strange opposition of feeling in all the parties at these
words. The blood curdled in the veins of the smugglers, whilst it seemed
to burst with overpowering fullness upon the forehead of the young man
who now attacked them. He fought for the prize of true love--they for
revenge. The moment they heard the name uttered by the girl they seemed
to think no more about her; but the fallen man sprang up, and Laud let
Margaret go, and both rushed, like enraged wild beasts, with full force
against young Barry. He, with true heroic daring, committed himself at
once to the encounter. He was a fine athletic young man, a head taller
than either of the sailors, but odds were fearfully against him. Luff
was a stout, stiff, sturdy seaman; and Laud young, active, cool, and
desperate.

A smuggler is seldom without a weapon of offence and defence. Luff
seized his pistol from his girdle, and fired at his brave antagonist; it
missed its mark, and the stout oak arm was not long in thundering a blow
upon his head, which again sent him sprawling upon the ground. It was
Laud's turn now to take his aim, which he did in the most cool,
determined manner, with as much ease, and as steady a hand, as if he
were firing at a holiday mark. It was a cruel aim, and rendered the
contest still more unequal. It took effect in the young man's left
shoulder, and rendered that arm useless.

None but such a frame and such a spirit could have stood against that
pistol-shot. It made him stagger for the moment; but he had presence of
mind to ward off the next blow of a cutlass with his good oaken staff.
And now might be seen the most desperate conflict for life or death
between the rivals. Barry and Laud closed and parted, and struggled
fiercely with each other, though the former had but one arm to act upon
the defensive with. His right hand, however, was powerful enough to dash
the sword of Laud at least ten yards into the wave; and with such
dexterity did he handle his weapon, that had not Luff come again
unexpectedly to the encounter, the contest must have been speedily
terminated in favour of Barry: Luff recovered his feet again, and rushed
at Barry with such rage, that again his other pistol missed its aim.

Barry had now to act entirely upon his own defence, with only one arm
against four. He had this advantage, however, that they had no time to
load their pistols, and had only their short butt-ends to fight with,
whilst he had a good long arm.

But assistance--unexpected assistance--was at hand. A tall, gaunt figure
strode along the strand, armed with a long fisherman's pike, or hook, a
weapon commonly used to take codfish off the fishing-lines. His was a
sinewy arm, which few could resist or disable.

When such a man was aroused, harmless and peaceable as was his general
character, his appearance became truly terrific; and his firm and steady
step, and determined resolution, told that he was a soldier of cool
courage, not easily to be beaten.

It was old Colson, or poor Robinson Crusoe, who, as it has been stated,
was making his way with fish up the Orwell.

He and young Barry, now side by side, beat back the smugglers to their
boat. Desperate was the contest; but there was no opposing the
unearthly-looking being, with his bones, perforated plates, and charms
dangling about his person. Well was it that he came so opportunely, for
without his help the fate of young Barry had been sealed for ever. It
was bad enough as it was. The smugglers retreated, and jumped into their
boat. Laud, seizing a carabine, levelled it at Barry, whilst Luff
pushed off the boat from the shore.

"Let fly at him, Will! let fly at him! Revenge yourself and my fall!"

A flash and loud explosion followed this advice. The smoke cleared off
in a second, and the pirates saw but the stately form of Robin standing
upon the shore. Young Barry--the generous, brave, and faithful
Barry--lay stretched upon the sand.

Meantime Margaret had escaped. She had reached the Priory Farm; and
rushing into the room where the harvest-men were assembled, fell down
exhausted, with just strength of voice to say, "Fly--fly--fly to the
shore! Barry will be murdered!"

The gamekeeper was off before Margaret arrived, having heard the report
of the pistols; and he went into the wood. The young men ran off to the
shore, and soon found the old fisherman supporting the head of the poor
young man. The blood was flowing fast from his wounds, and he was in a
swoon like death, though his heart beat, and he breathed painfully. They
formed a double row; they lifted him up, and carried him along as gently
as they could; but the poor fellow groaned with the agony of his
shattered arm and wounded side.

Robin followed them, muttering curses against the foul fiend, and every
moment pointing to the departing boat of the smugglers with a clenched
fist, exclaiming, "The foul fiend be with you! He'll consume you yet, ye
cowards!"




CHAPTER VIII

DISAPPOINTMENT


There is a sad and fearful void in the disappointed heart.

Poor Margaret! but one short hour past and thy prospects were as bright
as the broad moonlight that shone upon thy path. Yea, they were as
bright to thine eye as that beautiful orb in the most brilliant night;
for thy love was pure, true, and abiding.

How great was the reverse our heroine experienced when she quitted her
lover, and returned to the Priory Farm worse than desolate! Had she
never seen him again, _her_ disappointment could not have been so great.
Time might have taught her to consider him lost at sea, or taken by the
enemy, or killed in battle, or as having died a natural death. But as it
was, the tide had turned so suddenly; the change from the full flow to
the very lowest ebb was as instantaneous as if some gulf had swallowed
up the river, and left the channel dry. Clouds, black clouds intervened
between her and her lover. She had received a blight to all her hopes,
save one, and that was the last and best that any one could cleave to;
it was, "that God would change his heart, and one day make him see the
error of his way."

She little thought how distant that day was. But it seemed that her
sister's words were at this time true: "Margaret, you will never marry
William Laud."

Margaret was in the little parlour of the Priory Farm, in all the agony
of terror and the perturbation of confessing her faults to her master
and mistress, when the murmur of returning voices told that the good
farmer's men were coming from the shore. Her soul was so full--her heart
so anxious--her confession so open, so sincere--that even they who were
most angry with her could not find it in their hearts to be angry and
severe towards her at such a moment of distress. She was so full of
terror that she dared not to stir; she had no power to rise and make
inquiries upon the dreadful point upon which she wished to be most
satisfied. She heard the footsteps approach; and as the parlour-door
stood open, looking into the kitchen, she saw the young men bringing in
the heavy body of the youth, to whom, perhaps, she then owed her
existence; for her resolution had been formed, to have plunged into the
waves sooner than be taken away, against her will, by the smugglers.
Certainly she owed her present safety to the intrepid boldness of that
wounded man. She saw them bring him into the kitchen, pale, bloody, and,
as she first thought, lifeless; but a heavy groan, as they laid him down
upon the floor, by the fire, made her start up, and feel the first
spring of joy in her desponding heart, that he was not murdered. But the
joy that Laud was not his murderer was as great as that the youth was
not dead.

Her mistress's voice, calling to bring water and assist her, restored
her to a consciousness of her duties. Here might be seen the benefit of
active employment in diverting her mind from its most painful feelings,
rousing it to think, and turning it away from tormenting itself.

The surgeon was sent for immediately; and after a short delay in
preparing a bed in a room by itself, the young man was carried up by his
companions. Never was there a more melancholy change from the mirth of
"harvest-home," to the misery of a house of woe. To look into that
kitchen, which so shortly before was resounding with the cheerful voices
of merriment, and to see the long faces, to hear the whispers, and the
questions, and the remarks made upon the circumstances, presented a
scene so different and so painful, that description would fail to
express it. There sat the ancient fisherman, silent and thoughtful, his
left hand upon his forehead, and his right clutched convulsively with
his inward emotion. There stood the foreman of the field, with his
fellow-labourers, anxious to know who it was that had given the wound;
for they had as yet only been told that two men in a boat had fired upon
Barry, and wounded him.

Meanwhile the old fisherman, who had witnessed the scene, was so
absorbed in his own reflections, that he did not seem disposed
voluntarily to afford them any information.

At last one of them addressed Robin.

"Who was the fellow that fired the gun, Robin?"

"The foul fiend!" said Robin; "I saw him in the boat."

"What foul fiend? was he devil or man?"

"He was a demon, who left me for a moment to torment others. I knew
mischief would come of him as soon as he left me. He is always stirring
up infernal broils; and would bring a host of enemies against me, if it
were not for this charm. Look here," and taking from his side a
perforated bone, he held it up, saying, "this is the rib of Margery
Beddingfield, who was gibbeted on Rushmere Heath for the murder of her
husband. When I show him this, he will soon be off. This is so strong a
spell, he cannot touch me. But look! there he is! there he is!" and the
startled hinds closed round their lord, and looked fearfully in the
direction of the door, to see if the murderer was coming.

"Aye, look at this, thou false fiend! Dost thou remember how thou didst
stir up Margery, and Richard Ringe of Sternfield, her paramour, to
murder John Beddingfield, the farmer, near Saxmundham? Thou couldst
inflame their hot young blood to mischief; but what dost thou come here
for? Off! off, I say! Look here! thou hadst better go to the officers of
justice. Ha! ha! he is gone!" and the old man smiled again, as if he had
defeated his foe, and was congratulating himself on the victory.

These things were very unsatisfactory to the minds of these
plain-thinking countrymen. They again and again put questions to him,
but could get no other answers than incoherences about the foul fiend.

"But what had Margaret Catchpole to do with it?"

"Ask her yourself: the foul fiend always finds an easier prey in a
woman."

At this time Margaret came into the room; and ignorant as she herself
was of Robin's efficient aid, she could not help asking him if he had
seen the fight.

"Did _you_ see it, young woman? I saw you long before I saw the fight."

Margaret did not ask any more questions; for in another minute several
asked her who had been fighting, what it was for, and what she had to do
with it. She knew too well to speak would be to betray herself; and she
was glad to find they were in ignorance of the real perpetrator of the
deed. She was called into the parlour just then, and rejoiced to escape
the inquisitive demands of her fellow-servants.

"That's a clever girl," said old Robin, as she left the
kitchen,--"that's a clever girl. Which of you boys would like her for a
wife?"

"Ask Will Simpson," said a sly fellow.

"Ask poor Jack Barry," said another; "'tis my belief Jack got his blow
from a rival in Margaret's love."

"What fiend told you that, young man? 'Tis seldom any of 'em speak the
truth? But, perhaps, you know who he is that rivals Jack?"

"No, not I--not I. I know who he would be, if he was alive; and just the
sort of fellow, too, to give Jack a nab. But he's dead and gone long
ago, and maybe his bones are at the bottom of the sea, for he was killed
on Felixstowe beach."

"Who's he? who's he?"

"Why, Will Laud, the smuggler. Don't you know him, Robin?"

"Yes; but I never knew that he was dead."

"Oh, yes, he's dead enough. I saw a fellow who told me he helped to bury
him in the sands at the foot of the cliff."

"Then the foul fiend has brought him back to life again, for I have seen
him many times; and I spoke to him this very night, and he to me. Not
only so, I know him well; and I wish all the fiends had him before he
had given that brave lad his death-blow."

"What! Will Laud? you do not mean to say Will Laud was on the shore
to-night?"

"Ask Margaret Catchpole: she can tell you as much as I."

Margaret returned just as this was said; and Will Simpson, perhaps as
much in spite (for Margaret had upon some occasion of his rudeness given
him such a specimen of her dexterity with a frying-pan, as left a
memorial on his head not easily to be forgotten or forgiven) as for
inquisitiveness, put this question--

"I say, Peggy, who met you upon the shore to-night, eh?"

"What's that to you? A better man than you."

"Perhaps a better Will, too; eh, Peggy? One who will have his will of
you, too, before you die, and tame you, my dear."

"Perhaps he may; and should it be so, he will make a 'will o' the wisp'
of you, Simpson."

"He'll be hanged first, Peggy, take my word for that. He'll not be shot,
nor drowned: he's born to be hanged."

"And what are you born for, you coward, that, at such a time as this,
you should be quarrelling with me?"

"I'm born to be his informer; and, before long, I'll have you both up
before the Squire, for all this piece of work."

Margaret did not like this banter; it looked as if they already knew
that Will Laud was the intruder. She was somewhat less ready at her
replies than usual, and felt too great a fear that she might commit
herself. She tried, therefore, to turn the subject.

"My master, Robin, desires me to give you some supper."

"Thank your master, but I have had mine; and, but that I hoped to hear
what the doctor said to the poor young man upstairs, I should long ago
have been on board my boat."

The greatest cowards are not easily silenced when they find themselves
able to browbeat an adversary with impunity, and that adversary a woman.

"Well, Margaret, if you won't tell me, I'll tell you whom you met upon
the shore. You met one whom Robin says the foul fiend has raised to life
again."

Margaret turned very pale, and staggered to a chair. But Simpson still
went on.

"O Peggy, Peggy, you have a guilty face! I don't wonder at your feeling
shame. You've managed to hide the smuggler, have you? If you don't take
care, both you and Will Laud will come to a bad end."

Margaret rushed into the parlour, and fell at her master's feet,
imploring him to interfere and stop the reproaches of his men, who were
treating her in a way she did not deserve. Her mistress made her sit
down in the keeping-room; and, speaking a few words to her husband, he
left them. He remonstrated with his men, and was in the act of insisting
upon their departure to their homes, as Dr. Stebbing arrived. He was
desired at once to go into the parlour; and there he recognized that
high-spirited girl who, in the cause of humanity, had, in her childhood,
galloped the pony to Ipswich for his aid. She rose and curtseyed; but
her feet gave way under her, and she sank to the floor. The memory of
her dear sister, the doctor's former patient, her own happiness at that
time, and her present misery, were too much for her to bear, and she was
quite overcome. The good doctor raised her up, and, with his cheerful
voice, tried, in his usual kind way, to comfort her.

"Come, come, my girl, what's the matter? what's the matter? Are you the
patient I'm come all this way to see? I thought I was sent for to see a
young man. But what's the matter with you? Ah! is it so, my lassie?"
(for his sagacity gave him a glimpse of the truth). "Come, cheer up,
cheer up; we'll go and see the lad. I dare say he'll soon be better.
Cheer up, cheer up."

"Come, my good sir, let us have a light, and go upstairs," said the
doctor to the master of the house. "Now, my dear, go and fetch us a
towel and some warm water. Come, bestir yourself; I know it will do you
good."

This was the best medicine for Margaret, with whom to be told to do
anything, and not to go and do it, was almost an impossibility, so much
had she been accustomed to obey.

All that could be done for the youth was to lay him in as easy a posture
as possible; for he was in too much agony even to have his clothes
removed. One of his companions sat and wiped the cold perspiration from
his brows, whilst another washed his hands and face. He breathed quickly
and heavily, with shuddering fits that shook the bed violently, and he
was evidently in great pain.

"Come, my lads, come, lend me a hand--let us see--let us see! where is
the hurt?--where is the wound?--what's the lad's name?"

"John Barry, sir."

"John, my lad, let's look at you!" but John took no notice of the
doctor.

"I think, sir, his arm is broke, for it dangled by his side all the way
we carried him."

"Let us see, my boy, let us see! 'Tis broken! high up too, too high up.
But we must strip him. Gently there--gently there, my lad"; and the
groans of the poor fellow told his agony. The work was done with great
care, and by slow degrees. But it was done, and then the frightful
nature of his wounds became conspicuous: a gunshot wound from the middle
of the arm to the shoulder. The ball had struck the humerus, and broken
it, glanced over the head of it, and passed between the scapula and
clavicle, and it might be easily felt lying in the external portion of
the trapezian muscle. It was so near the skin that it was easily
extracted; the difficulty was to get away those parts of the clothing
which had been carried into the wound. Such was the effect of the first
shot.

The second was the most severe. It had pierced through the long dorsal
muscle, and the ball lay directly against the lumbar vertebrae. This
wound was the more agonizing because it had pierced the strongest
muscles of the human frame, and bruised the stoutest part of the
backbone.

After the doctor had examined his wounds and ascertained that they were
of the most serious nature, he said--

"This will be a work of time. Get some stimulants--put warm flannels on
his feet--his extremities are icy cold. He has had violent exertion--all
his muscles are hard and stiff. Put his hands in warm water. Wash his
temples with warm vinegar. There, there; come, my poor fellow, come;
consciousness will soon return."

He opened his eyes, looked at the doctor, then at his master, then at
his friends, and at last at Margaret, who was putting warm flannels to
his feet. He looked earnestly at her, spoke not, but a tear stole down
his face as he closed his eyes again.

His wounds were now probed, cleaned, and dressed, as carefully as if he
had been one of the wealthiest squires or nobles of the land, and he was
then left for the night, attended by two of his fellow-servants, in case
he should need assistance or restraint.

"There, there, good-night, John, good-night. I think you'll do now.
Come, come, he feels a little easier. He breathes better"; and patting
his cheeks in his good-humoured way, Dr. Stebbing left him, and went
down into the parlour.

There is always a little chit-chat with the doctor after the usual
labour of his profession is over, and he is quietly seated with the
family. It is then he judges of what is best for his patient, for at
such times the secrets of most families come forth; and if love or law,
if loss of stock or money, if cruelties, injuries, or any causes
whatever have been acting upon the patient's mind, the doctor is sure to
be made the confidant.

If the faculty could find out the means of supplying all their invalids
with such things as they really wanted, they would soon get well, but
in default of such means medicine and good advice--very necessary
articles in their way--are supplies in which the faculty seldom fail.

"Doctor, will you take anything to-night? you have had a cold ride, and
will have another on your way home--shall my mistress give you anything
warm?"

"I care not if she does. A little nutmeg in a little warm
brandy-and-water, and just one slice of your nice harvest-cake, and I
shall be comfortable."

The first question asked of the doctor was, "What he thought of his
patient?"

"Why, he has got an ugly wound that will take months to heal. He will
not be able to be moved for six or seven weeks. Where do his parents
live?"

"At Levington," was the reply. "His father is tolerably well to do in
the world, though he has a large family. I have not a steadier young man
on my premises, nor a quieter, soberer, or better behaved lad, or a
better workman belonging to me."

"So much the better. But what does the old fisherman do in the kitchen?
I thought he never sat down in any house, but always kept to his boat?"

"He is only waiting to speak to you, doctor. At least, he said he should
stop to hear your report."

"I should like to have one word with him."

"I'll go and tell him so"; and off trotted the worthy farmer for Robin,
with whom he soon returned, and then, beckoning to his wife, they left
him and the doctor alone together.

"Well, Robin, what an odd fish you are! I can never persuade you to come
into my kitchen, and here you are, hail fellow well met, with the
farmer's men at Harvest-Home. How is this, Robin? I shall tell my
daughter of you, and leave her to set some of your foul fiends to work
upon you."

"They've been at work pretty well to-night, doctor, or else I'm wofully
mistaken. One of 'em has done a pretty job of mischief here; and it's
well if he don't do more before he's done."

The doctor understood his dialect, and knew how to get out of him what
he wanted.

"Who did the foul fiend work upon? who was his victim?"

"He left my boat, and went aboard Will Laud's."

"What! the smuggler? I thought he was shot long ago."

"So others thought, but not I; for I saw him and a sturdy villain of his
pass my boat, with all their sails set; and when my Infernal Broiler
left me, and sat grinning on his mast, I knew he was up to mischief."

"What mischief, Robin?"

"Why, look ye, doctor; you must ha' seen the mischief. Ha'en't you
dressed the young man's wounds?"

"Yes, Robin; but how came your imp to be the cause of this?"

"Nay, that you must ask the girl here; for seldom do my imps fail to
make mischief among the sex."

"Was it a love affair?"

"Nay, it didn't appear much o' that." And here Robin, in his quaint
language, well understood by the doctor, told his own tale as it
happened.

"Well, Robin, all I can say is, that, but for you, one of the finest
young fellows in the land would have lost his life; and there's a guinea
for you."

"No, no, master; give me a guinea for my fish, but don't give me a
guinea for doing no more than I ought to do. Give it to the poor boy for
loss of time. I've got some good fish, and you may have some to-morrow
morning; but the fiends would torment me all night, if I went to my
hammock with a guinea for my reward. No, doctor, no. I thank you, too;
but tell me the boy will do well, and I'm well paid for my pains."

"He will do well, I think, Robin, if his mind be not disturbed."

The doctor felt, as perhaps the reader will, that the honest old
fisherman, bewitched and bewildered as he was, had more good feeling
about him than many a man of clearer head and a less scrupulous
conscience, who would have crept along the mud to pick up a guinea for
his dirty pocket.

"Well, well, my boy, I shall not find such an odd fish in your boat as
your own self. You may bring up your basket to my door, and my daughter
will deal with you. Instead of a guinea, I must give you any charm that
you can ask me for."

"Keep to that, doctor, and I'll ask you soon to give me one that I stand
much in need of, and which you only can furnish me with. You are surgeon
to the gaol, and I want something out of that place. I'll tell you, one
of these days, what it is. My boat is now high and dry upon the shore.
You might ask some of the landsmen here to lend me a hand to get her
off. I shall be in Ipswich as soon as yourself."

No sooner was the request made than it was granted; and Robin and five
or six good stout fellows were on the shore, and soon shoved the boat
off, which, quicker than the men could walk upon the sand, moved on her
native element to the well-timed stroke of the able fisherman.

The doctor's first introduction to the flying Margaret is well known to
the reader. His knowledge of her under those circumstances made him feel
for her; but there were some questions he wished to put to her, as his
curiosity had been excited by what Robin had revealed. The farmer had
already given him some hint about her confessions; but the doctor wanted
to find out whether, after what had taken place that night, the tide of
her affections might not have turned a little toward his patient. It was
a delicate question to ask, but he thought he would find it out by
another plan; so he desired to see Margaret in the parlour before he
left the house.

"I did not half like your look, my girl, when I first saw you to-night.
Come hither; let me feel your pulse: let me look at your tongue. Your
pulse is quick, and you've some fever hanging about you."

"I thank you, sir, I shall be better to-morrow. I'm very sorry for what
has happened."

"You could not help it, my girl--you could not help it; it was not your
fault."

"I don't know that, sir,--I don't know that. I blame myself much;
but--but--"

"But you don't like to blame anybody else, Margaret; I know you."

"Well, sir, that's the truth; but yet he was to blame."

"Who? Barry?"

"No, sir, no; but he who shot him."

"Yes, he was a cowardly fellow. What induced him to do it?"

"Because Barry's brother shot _him_. I suspect he was excited at the
remembrance of his own sufferings, and urged on to desperation by the
fellow that was with him; and, in a moment of madness, thought to
revenge himself."

"This was not right, Margaret; it was still very cowardly."

"Why, yes, it was; but--but, I do not defend him, sir."

"What then, Margaret? what then?"

"Why, I was to blame, sir!"

"Why so?"

"Because I told him Barry loved me, sir."

"Ho, ho! a little jealousy, was it? Was it so, Margaret? Well, well, he
will be more jealous now."

"I'm sorry for it, sir. Had I not thought he would have known my
preference for him, I should not have told him this. It is this I blame
myself for, as much as I do him. I hope Barry will do well, sir."

"Your hopes may be disappointed, Margaret. His is a very bad case; and,
if he dies, Will Laud will be hanged."

"Then you know all, sir? Oh, pray save him if you can, sir!"

"Who?"

"John Barry, sir,--John Barry."

"Margaret, do you love him?"

"No, sir; yes--yes, sir. I think he is a very good young man, and he
would be a great loss to his parents."

"More so than to you, my girl?"

"Oh, yes, sir, yes. I'm sure I wish him well, and shall always feel
grateful to him for his kindness to me. I do hope he will recover, sir,
for Laud's sake."

This was enough; the doctor now knew all. He saw that his patient was in
love with Margaret, but that Margaret loved another. He was in
possession of the whole secret. He promised to do all he could; he
dismissed the girl; and, after a few minutes' further chat with the
master and mistress of the house, and strongly advising them to send for
Barry's parents in the morning, he took his leave. His little bay pony
soon rattled up Gainsborough's Lane, through the open fields towards the
Race-course, and over Bishop's Hill, to the town of Ipswich.

Barry's parents were not long in coming to their son, nor long in
learning the real state both of his mind and body. It is the happiest
time to die when a parent's tender care is round you. Then the agony of
suffering is greatly relieved, and the heart can open its most inward
thoughts. It turns, with such filial respect and thankfulness, towards
those whom it does not like to grieve, but who are always the most
quick-sighted to see our wants and to relieve our distresses. So gentle
is a mother's love--so delicate, so soothing, so healing to the youthful
mind, that nature almost decays with pleasure before her soft
attentions. Nor is a father's manliness and feeling less sensibly
experienced at such a time. He may not have a woman's gentleness, but he
has a firmness and a quietness of action which are seldom seen at other
times, and which make a sick room seem more calm and sufferable. He has
quite as deep feeling, though it is more subdued. Who that ever has been
ill in his youth, and has seen the kindness of parental love, but has
thought that he never could die happier than when his fond parents were
near him?

So thought young Barry when his parents were by his side; and not only
thought so, but plainly told them that he wished to die.

"I hope not yet, my boy," said his father. "The young sapling may get a
blight, but it soon recovers, and springs up vigorously; but the old
trees naturally decay. I hope to go first, my boy."

"Yes, father, such may be your hope and natural expectation; but Heaven
avert it! You have others to live for; may I never live to see your
death!"

"Come, John, do not give way to such feelings. You know not yet what the
good God may have in store for you."

"He has, indeed, been good to me, father, and has left me nothing more
to wish for in this world."

"Perhaps not for your own benefit, John; but we are not always to die
just when we wish it. Neither are we to live merely for ourselves. We
are called upon to live for others; and more may be expected of us on
this account than upon our own. We are not to be such selfish beings as
to think, 'The wind blows only for our own mill.'"

"I meant not to find fault, father; but I am disappointed, and feel
therefore useless."

"I know your disappointment, boy; but I would not have you take it so to
heart as to let it prey upon your spirits. There are others far better
and more worthy of you, who may esteem you, John, for your good conduct
and character; and one of such may make you an excellent companion for
life."

"Father, I know I am not so wise as you are. I have not your experience;
yet this I feel and say, that I hope you will never find fault with that
poor girl."

"I will not, John, in your presence; but how can a father help feeling
hurt and angry with a girl who prefers a smuggler to an honest man?"

"That may or may not be a fault; but you just now told me we should live
for others, and not be so selfish as to think only of ourselves. Now, I
do believe that Margaret lives only in the hope that Will Laud will
become an altered man."

"He never will! A lawless villain, who will revenge a blow upon the
innocent hand that never gave it, has a heart too reprobate and stony
ever to change."

"You will not say it is impossible?"

"I did not mean to say it is a thing impossible with God; but you seemed
to think that, by Margaret's influence, such a change might be effected.
This, I say, will never be. Laud may influence her, and may corrupt her
mind; but, take my word for it, the man whose love is swallowed up in
the violence of passion, as his is, will never produce anything good. He
will be a selfish villain even towards the poor unfortunate victim of
his choice."

"Oh, father, would that you could persuade Margaret of this! She is
indeed a good girl, and a warm-hearted one; and, had she received any
education, would have been as good and respectable as my own dear
mother."

"All this may be, John; but, if I could persuade you out of this fit of
fancy, I then might have hope that I should have some power of
persuasion with Margaret. Till then I shall stand no chance. For, if I
cannot root the weeds out of my own ground, how shall I be fit to work
for others?"

The young man sighed deeply, and could answer no more. He felt the force
of the superior wisdom of his father; and, owning to himself that there
was much truth in the remark, felt how difficult it would indeed be to
conquer in his own heart his hopeless attachment.

In due time, Barry's wounds progressed towards recovery, and it was
agreed among his fellow-labourers that, before the cold weather should
set in, they would form a corps for carrying him home to Levington.
Twelve undertook the task; and, one fine October day, they managed to
place him and his bed upon a frame, made for the occasion, to which were
attached shoulder-pieces, and so conveyed him to his father's residence,
where all things were made ready by his mother's hand for his
reception.




CHAPTER IX

EVIL WAYS


Onward went the boat to the haven at the mouth of the river, and the two
guilty souls in her felt that they had narrowly escaped capture, and
that, if the law of the land should ever lay hold upon them, they would
both have to rue the foul deed they had committed. But the law of the
land had long been set at defiance by them; and they owned none but
those of the wind and weather, which compelled them to run for foreign
ports, and to slink into those of their own country at the dead of
night.

After various congratulations upon their luck in getting off, and making
many remarks upon the late encounter, they turned to their duties as
sailors, kept their boat trim, and scudded along, with all sails set,
toward the _Alde_, which now lay in the shade of Felixstowe Cliff,
moored, as if waiting wind and tide to carry her up the river. They were
well acquainted with the spot, and bore away through the bright
moonlight, reached the mouth of the river, and were at length lifted up
by the rolling waves of old Ocean, which came tumbling in from the
harbour's mouth.

"The light burns low by the water's edge, and is hidden from the
sentinel on Landguard Fort. All's right; we shall be on board
presently."

Soon did they run along the side of the dark cutter; and giving the
signal, "Aldeburgh", were well understood by the dark-looking sailor who
kept watch upon the forecastle of the ship. All was right; and when the
captain came on board, all hands were had up, the sails quickly set, and
the anchor weighed. Luff took the helm, the captain retired to his
cabin, and in a short time the boat was hoisted in, and away they dashed
to sea.

The dark dreams of the captain were mingled with the visions of his
past failure, and disturbed with the jealousy and hatred of all the
Barrys. The phosphoric lights upon the sea, as the vessel glided through
the waves, made it look like a boiling ocean of flame, like burning
waters; and the spray which the waves gave off resembled smoke. They
were fiery spirits who lived on board that vessel, as ardent as the
liquid flame they bore in their tubs, and about as productive of good.
Could the history of every one on board the _Alde_ be told, it would
make the blood curdle in the veins of many a stout landsman. They were
pirates as well as smugglers. Secrecy and crime went hand-in-hand with
them. Daylight and honesty were things scarcely known amongst them.

The chief employer of these men lived, as the reader knows, in tolerable
repute, sometimes at one place, sometimes at another. He had many
vessels at sea, and Captain Bargood was as well known on the opposite
side of the German Ocean as on this. He accumulated riches, but he never
enjoyed them. He lived in a kind of terror, which those only who have
felt it can describe. He outlived, however, all his ships and all his
ships' companies; and looked, to the day of his death, an old
weather-beaten log, which had outstood storms and tempests, and come
ashore at last to be consumed. He prided himself, in his old days, upon
the many daring captains he had made, and the manner in which he had
secretly commanded them. He had a regular register of their appointments
and their course, how many trips each ship had taken, how she paid, how
she was lost or taken, and what became of her and her crew. That fearful
log-book could tell of many a horrid tale. It would also serve to show
the enormous extent of illicit traffic carried on at that period by one
man alone.

We must now return to the _Alde_. While dashing through the sea, past
the sand-bank, or bar, at the mouth of the Deben, those on board saw a
solitary light burning in Ramsholt Church, a sign that she might send a
boat on shore in safety. Luff undertook to go. He did so, and found a
messenger from Captain Bargood to land the cargo at the Eastern Cliff,
as the coastguard had received information that a run was going to take
place at Sizewell Gap, and they had therefore drawn away their men, that
their force at that point might be strong enough.

The work was soon done, and the desperate crew betook themselves to the
cave, to spend a night of revel and carouse, such as spirits like theirs
only could delight in.

To the surprise of many, Will Laud remained on board, and preferred
taking a cruise, and coming in again the following night for the ship's
company. The fact, however, was, that he was afraid of the land. The
consciousness of his guilt, and the fear of the revenge of Barry, should
the coast-guard hear of his attack upon young Barry, the brother, acted
upon his nerves, and made him think himself safe only on the broad sea.

A certain number of men always remained on board to take the vessel out
of sight of the land until the night, and then only were these
free-traders able to near the shore. The lives of these men were always
in jeopardy, and none of them ever turned out good husbands or friends.
When they were compelled to leave off the contraband traffic, they
generally took to poaching, and led fearful and miserable lives; which,
if traced to the close, would generally be found to end in sorrow, if
not in the extremity of horror.

John Luff had an interview with Captain Bargood, and then told him of
Will Laud's awkward situation upon the banks of the Orwell.

"A lucky fellow to escape as he did!" exclaimed Bargood. "He might have
been at this moment in Ipswich gaol, and from thence he would only have
escaped through the hangman's hands."

"We must keep him out of the way, sir. We must again report him killed,
and change his name from Hudson. He is already known as Will Laud, and
his fame will spread along the shore."

"Well, he is a lucky fellow. He should go round the world. I'll send
him, ship and crew, a good long voyage. Something may be done in the
fur-trade this winter. I have received a notice that I might send a
ship, and cheat the Hudson's Bay Company of a good cargo of skins. What
shall we dub the captain?"

"Let's call him Captain Cook; I'll tell the crew it's your desire to
have the captain honoured for his success by giving him the title of the
great navigator."

"That will do, John--that will do. Take these orders to Captain Cook.
Give these presents to the men. Tell them to disperse themselves upon a
visit to their friends, and meet again at the Cliff on the 12th of next
month, for the purpose of making a long voyage. In the meantime do you
and the captain contrive to get the ship into friendly quarters abroad,
and if you like to run ashore yourselves, there is my cottage at Butley
Moor, and you can take possession of it. But keep yourselves quiet. Five
of the crew belong to Butley, and I know what they will be up to. Do not
let Captain Cook go up the Orwell again, if you can help it, and steer
clear of the coastguard."

"Aye, aye, master, I'll manage"; and, leaving the old commodore, he
returned to the cave, and reached it at the precise moment when the
hardy fellows were drinking "Long life to Jack Luff!"

"I'm just come in time, boys, to make you all return thanks instead of
me. I wish you all long life and good luck. I've got you all near three
weeks' run ashore. So here's your healths! But I say, boys, the
commodore approves our young captain, and has appointed him a good
voyage next turn; and as he is to sail across the Atlantic, he wills
that you all should join in calling him Captain Cook."

"With all our hearts! With all our hearts!" exclaimed several of the
crew. "But what were you saying about the three weeks' run?"

"Why, that you must all be here by the 12th of October. In the meantime,
if you want to see me or the captain, you will find us after next week
at the green-windowed cottage at Butley. Till then, my boys, follow
your own fun. Here's your pay, and a present besides for each."

A noisy shout issued through that dark and dreary cavern. They were not
long in obeying their employer's orders. By twos and threes they
dispersed, some to Boyton, some to Butley, some to Shottisham, Ramsholt,
Bawdsey, Hollesley, Felixstowe, one or two as far as Trimley, Nacton,
and Ipswich.

The country was too hot for some of them, who, being suspected of being
concerned in the attack made upon young Barry, were looked after in
order to be prosecuted for attempt at murder. All pains had been taken;
rewards offered, their persons described; and so nearly did some of the
crew resemble the description of their companions, that they had to cut
their cables, and run for the furthest port in safety. John Luff and the
captain took up their quarters again by Butley Moor, and employed
themselves, as before, in the dangers, and to them familiar sports, of
poaching.

The 12th of October came, and the smugglers returned to their places of
meeting, and the captain and his mate met them at the cave. Two only did
not come to the muster, and these two were always suspected of being
rather "shy cocks."

"I say, captain," said one of the men, "I had like to have suffered for
you, and Tim Lester for Jack Luff. Two fellows laid an information
against us, and swore that we were the men who attempted to murder young
Barry. The hundred pounds' reward would have made them stick to it as
close as a nor'-wester to the skin. We cut our cables, and ran off and
escaped. The country around is hot enough after you both, so the sooner
we are on board the better."

Accordingly, stores were soon shipped, anchors, cables, spars, and
rigging carried on board, orders given, and "far, far at sea they
steered their course."




CHAPTER X

THE PARTING


Unaffected was the joy with which the parents and family of young Barry
received their brave son into their peaceful cot. The good miller and
his wife welcomed the pale and dejected youth with that quiet, composed,
and affectionate interest which at once soothes and comforts a sick
soul.

The young man had more upon his mind than he chose to speak of, and a
heavy weight upon his spirits, which not all the cheerfulness of his
brothers and sisters and parents could allay. His wounds gradually
healed; but his weakness continued, and he appeared to be suffering some
internal torture which prevented his sleeping at night. He read, and
tried to improve his mind; but it availed nothing. His sisters, too,
sought every opportunity to afford him diversion; but the languid smile
and forced expression of thankfulness told that, although he felt
grateful, he did not relish their mirth. He looked intently into the
newspaper, especially into all matters connected with the coast and
coastguard; and when he read of any skirmish with the smugglers, he was
feverishly anxious to know who they were. He also expressed a particular
wish to see his brother Edward.

Though the miller could not say exactly when Edward might be expected
home, he resolved to send to the stations where he might be found, and
urge him to obtain leave of absence.

It was not long before that leave was given, and he returned to visit
his parents and his invalid brother. The young men mutually rejoiced to
see each other, and were not long in comparing notes upon their separate
adventures.

"I prophesy I shall catch him one of these days," said Ned; "and if I
do, he shall never remember his last escape. We know him well when we
see him, but the fellow changes his name as often as he does his place,
so that our information is frequently contradictory. If once I have a
chance of changing shots with him again, Jack, he shall pay me for those
cowardly wounds in your side."

"Nay, Ned, I had rather that the sea swallowed him up, than that you
should shoot him."

"How then would you know he was dead, Jack? His ship might be lost, and
the wreck driven on shore; but we should not know it, and he might or
might not escape. There's nothing like a bullet for certainty."

"But you would know him, if you saw his body cast ashore?"

"Yes, that I should; and I would soon let you know it, too."

"Well, if I must hope for his destruction, I would rather it were in
this way than by your hand."

"For your sake, Jack, I should be satisfied with it so; but, for my own
part, I have no compunction in shooting a desperado like him, who lives
upon the vitals of others, and fights against his king and country, and
sets at defiance all laws, human and divine. He would kill any man that
opposed his nefarious traffic; and, as I am one that he has sworn to
attack by land or by sea, whether in war or peace, I see no reason why I
should not defend your life and my own, even though it may cost the
taking away of his."

The sufferer did not argue the point any further; and especially as
there were reasons of a private nature which had a powerful influence
upon his mind. He revived very much during his brother's stay, and
seemed to be more cheerful than at any former period of his illness. He
even assisted in the labours of the mill, and by little and little began
to pick up strength. His brother's leave of absence, however, expired;
and the two were seen to walk away together over the hill, arm-in-arm,
in the most earnest and deep conversation.

"Never fear, Jack; I will keep your secret honestly, and render you all
the help in my power. I will let you know our movements."

"And take care of yourself, Ned, and do not risk your life for my sake.
If you should fall, what should I feel?"

"I hope you would feel that I fell in a good cause, brother. At least, I
do feel it so myself, or I should not be a happy man. No man can be
happy, John, who even thinks that he is doing wrong."

"God preserve you, dear brother! Farewell!"

The two brothers parted, one to his duties at Dunwich, where his station
then was, the other to his home and thoughts.

Anticipation is the greatest quickener of mortal spirits. There is
something so lively in the expectation of things upon which the heart is
fixed, that even time passes quickly by during the period in which hope
is so vivid. But there is a point at which the tide turns, and as
gradually operates in a reverse manner, when the heart sickens,
desponds, and grows gloomy.

Young Barry returned from his parting walk with his brother in high
spirits, elated with hope, and better both in mind and body. He assisted
his father in his work, and was at times playful with his sisters. So
much did his health improve at this time, that his parents began to hope
that the ensuing spring would see him perfectly restored.

And where, all this time, was she, the unfortunate cause of all his
misery, and the most unintentional marplot in this history? She was as
great a sufferer as he could possibly be. Nothing could equal her
distress of mind at the turn affairs had taken. A bodily affliction
might have proved a comfort to her. She felt, after all that had taken
place, that the indulgence of her kind master and mistress should be
rewarded with more than usual exertions on her part. She had stirring
employment for her hands, as well as much exertion for her mind.

It would have been a pleasant thing for her could she have been absent
when the sharp gibes of her fellow-servants would torment her with
insinuations. There is dreadful cruelty in that man's heart who delights
to torment a creature which cannot defend itself. Poor Margaret felt
that she had no defence to set up, and no friend to defend her. To hear
the hopes expressed that Laud might be soon taken, and the reward talked
of for his apprehension, and the wishes expressed by some that they
might have the opportunity of handling the cash: these things, coming
from those whom she met every day, made her present position very
uncomfortable.

More than once, one would announce at dinner-time that the smuggler had
been seen on shore and captured. Again, it was stated that he was taken
in an open boat at sea. And if a sailor chanced to call at the house,
Margaret's heart was in a flutter lest he should be seen by some of the
men, and she should be ridiculed. These things kept the poor girl's
heart in a constant state of apprehension, and evidently affected her
health; whilst the accounts brought to the farm, from time to time, of
young Barry's protracted sufferings, were anything but satisfactory to
her. Her master and mistress were uniformly kind to her, or she could
not have borne her sufferings. As it was, she found herself so
uncomfortable, that she resolved to give her mistress warning, and to
leave her as soon as she could suit herself with another servant. She
begged her mistress not to think that she was dissatisfied with her or
with her work: she told her plainly that she suffered so much from the
taunts, and even the looks, of the men upon the farm, that she could not
live there, and she was resolved to go home to her parents.

About the latter end of the ensuing November, Margaret returned to her
parents; and if she did not live quite so well as she had done, she
lived, at all events, in peace.

It was at this moment of her utmost poverty that Margaret's love and
fortitude were put to the severest trial. In the depth of the winter,
she received an unexpected visit from young Barry, who, claiming as he
did a more than common interest in her fate, and a more than passing
share of her acquaintance, well knew that he should not be denied
admission into her father's cottage. He entered, looking extremely pale
and thin; but Margaret was glad to see him; and more especially as he
declared that he had walked all the way from Levington. She dusted a
seat for him; and placed it by the crackling fagot-fire, requesting him
to rest himself after his walk. It was about half-past two o'clock in
the afternoon; her father was cutting fagots on the heath; her mother,
who had been unwell, had gone upstairs to lie down; her youngest brother
was attending the sheep; and she was alone at the time young Barry
entered. He seated himself, and answered her kind inquiries after his
health, and received her grateful expressions of thankfulness for his
kindness to her upon former occasions, and especially upon that day when
he had received his wound.

Barry heard this with that true modesty which a good man always feels.
He said it was only his duty; he regretted the conduct of his former
friends and fellow-labourers, which had driven Margaret from her place,
and he asked her if she intended to go to service again. She replied,
"Not in this part of the country. I hope soon to go and stay with my
Uncle Leader at Brandiston, who, though he has a large family of his
own, has yet kindly consented to take me in, if I should want a home."

"Margaret," said the young man, fixing his eyes upon her intently, "are
you in want of a home, and are there any circumstances in the world that
will ever induce you to share mine with me? I am come over for no other
purpose than to ask you this question. Give me a hopeful answer."

It is impossible for any woman, with a woman's heart, not to feel
grateful to an honourable man, who, regarding not the poverty and
reverse of circumstances which she may have experienced, renews those
earnest vows which once, in happier days, he had before offered.
Margaret felt young Barry's kindness, and owned it with the deepest
thankfulness, if not in words of eloquence, yet in words of such
simplicity and earnestness, as spoke the noble resolution of a good and
honest, though, alas, mistaken mind!

"I do not say, John, that there are no circumstances under which I might
not be induced to accept your kindness, and for which I might not
endeavour to render you the service and obedience of my whole life; but
there is one circumstance which would utterly preclude my acceptance of
your offer; yet forgive me if I say, I hope that one circumstance will
for ever exist."

"What is that one, Margaret? Name it."

"Nay, John, you know it well. I have told you before, that as long as I
know that Will Laud is living, or at least until I know that he is dead,
I will never marry any other man."

"But you must know, Margaret, the dangerous life he leads, and the
precarious tenure by which that life is held, subject as it is to all
the perils of the sea."

"Alas! I know it well; but there is a God who governs and directs all
things for good, and I hope still that the day of grace and penitence
may arrive, in which, though fickle as he now is, he may be altered and
improved. Nothing is impossible; and as long as life lasts, so long will
I have hope."

"But your hopes, Margaret, may be blighted--it may be that the sea
itself may devour him."

"It may be so. It will require something more than the bare report of
such a calamity to convince me of the fact, even though years should
bring no tidings of him."

"But if you should have the truth asserted by one who should chance to
see him perish, would that be sufficient proof?"

"No, sir, no! Except I know from my own sight, or from the most positive
evidence of more than one, I could not trust to it."

"But if you were at last convinced of his death, might I then hope?"

"It will be time to speak to me of that if God should grant me life
beyond that dreadful time; but, now that I think of your
kindheartedness, and know how unwilling you are to give unnecessary
pain, I begin to fear that you have some melancholy tidings to
communicate. Speak, John, speak!--your manner is unusual, and your
conversation is too ominous. Have you heard anything of Laud? Pray
speak, and tell me at once."

This was more than the youth could at once perform. He had been so
carried away by his own passion, that he had not foreseen the effect
which his own unwelcome tidings might occasion. He now heartily wished
that he had left it for others to communicate. He hesitated, looked
painfully distressed, and was disconcerted at his own precipitancy.

"I know, John, by your manner, that you have something to tell me,
though you seem afraid to utter it. Tell me the worst, tell me the
worst!"

"Margaret, I own that I have been too abrupt. My own hopes have made me
overlook the shock I know you will experience; but I had really no
intention of giving you pain. The worst is, that which I have often
thought would come to pass--Will Laud is dead!"

"How do you know that?"

"I saw him myself this very morning."

"Where? where?"

"At Bawdsey Ferry."

"How knew you it was Laud?"

"My brother saw his boat coming ashore in the gale last night, saw it
driven upon the rocks inside the bar, and smashed to pieces. Laud, with
three others, was cast on the shore quite dead. My brother sent me word
with the morning's light. I would not even trust to his report, so I
went to Bawdsey and saw him. I then hastened to be the first to convey
the intelligence to you. Forgive me, Margaret, that my selfish thoughts
should have made me forget your feelings."

"I can forgive _you_; but I never should forgive myself, if I did not go
directly and judge from my own sight if it be really so. I have long
made up my mind to hear unpleasant tidings; but I have never been
without hope that something would alter him."

"I fear that he was too desperate ever to reform."

"I did not think he could reform himself. I lived in hopes that some
severe blow might bring him to his senses; but I must go and see. In the
meantime let me request you not to mention those matters to me again; at
least, let me have time to think of the past and consider of the
future."

"You will pardon me, Margaret, and attribute to my regard for you the
precipitate step I have taken upon this occasion."

"Where lies the body of poor Laud?" said Margaret, without seeming to
hear what Barry had last said.

"It is in the boat-house at Bawdsey Ferry, together with the three
others."

"I will go there to-day." And she immediately prepared to fulfil her
resolution.

"How will you go? Will you let me drive you there? I can obtain a horse
and cart; and I think you know me well enough to be persuaded of my
care."

"I do not doubt it, sir, but I had rather not go with you. I have no
objection to be your debtor for the horse and cart, but my youngest
brother will drive me."

"It shall be here in half an hour. May I offer you any other aid?"

"None, sir, whatever. You have my thanks; and I so far consider your
honesty and truth deserves my esteem, that, by to-morrow at this time,
if you will pay us another visit, I shall be glad to see you."

"It is all that I could wish or hope. Till then, Margaret, good-bye."

Young Barry left with a heart somewhat easier, though touched with pain
for the poor girl. He had, however, seen the only being who stood
between him and his affections laid a helpless corpse upon the boat.
Hope took the place of despair--he soon obtained the horse and cart, and
sent them to their destination.

Barry's anxiety was greatly increased as the day wore away, and a night
of feverish suspense succeeded. Sleep was quite out of the
question--every hour he heard the clock strike in the room beneath him.
He saw the grey dawn approach, and beheld the gradually increasing light
clearer and clearer shining, and throughout the whole livelong night he
dwelt but upon one theme--that theme was Margaret!

He rose next morning, looking, as his friends declared, like a ghost. He
ate no breakfast--he could not talk--he could not work; but could only
walk about, lost in abstracted meditation. The dinner-hour came with
noon, but he could eat nothing--he had neither appetite, speech, nor
animation. No efforts of his parents could call forth any of his
energies--they knew he had been to see his brother; but they could not
get him to declare the purport of his visit. He said that his brother
was well; that nothing had happened to him; that he had seen him quite
well; and that he was promoted a step in the service; and that he was
constantly employed. It was evident to them that something was preying
upon the young man's mind which he would not disclose. They did not,
however, distress him with questions; and after dinner, he departed from
the house, and was observed to walk toward Nacton.

He found Margaret returned, and seated by the fireside, as she was the
day before when he visited her. She looked very pale and thoughtful. The
young man took this as a necessary consequence of the shock she had
received at the sight of her lover's corpse, little dreaming that at
that very moment she was actually feeling for the distress of him who
then stood before her.

"Well, Margaret, I am come, according to your appointment."

"I am very grateful to you for your assistance. I should never have
forgiven myself had I not gone. I saw your brother, sir, and he was very
kind to me. Through his permission I obtained a sight of the bodies in
the boat-house, and he told me concerning the melancholy wreck of the
schooner; but--but both you and your brother, sir, are mistaken."

The heart of the youth was so stricken, he could not for a time utter
one single word--he sat all astonishment, all dismay, all agony, all
despair. There was no joyful congratulation for Margaret, there was no
apology for his mistake--feelings too deep for utterance overpowered
him.

Margaret saw and felt, in the midst of her own hope, the painful
disappointment of his, nor could she summon courage to utter more. After
the most afflicting silence, John Barry, as if he could not doubt his
own and his brother's eyes, said--

"Are you sure I was mistaken?"

"Quite," said Margaret; "quite."

"And my brother, how could he be so deceived? he knew Laud so well."

"Few knew him better, but I convinced him that he was mistaken. I asked
him where the wound was upon the forehead, which he had given him, and
which I had such difficulty in healing. It certainly was very like Laud,
and, had I not well considered him, I also might have been deceived; but
I am glad I went. Your brother is quite satisfied upon the point, but
very much hurt to think of the grief he has occasioned you. He felt very
sorry, also, for the pain which he kindly imagined I must have felt,
which, however, was greatly relieved by the joy I experienced in proving
to his satisfaction that he was mistaken. He declared that, for my sake,
he would never injure Will Laud if he could help it. Oh, how I wish that
Will could have heard that declaration! I am persuaded that they would
have been good friends from that time. I think you will find your
brother at Levington upon your return, for I know he asked permission of
Lieutenant Brand to let him visit his father for a day upon very urgent
business. I suspect this is but to see you, and explain to you his
mistake."

"Margaret, I ought to have felt more for you than for myself. I wish you
well--I scarcely now can hope. I am indeed wretched, but it is my duty
to strive against these feelings--I know it is. But here in this country
I cannot remain--I must go abroad. I must see if I can get a grant of
land in Canada--I cannot live here; but I shall never forget you,
Margaret, never!--and may I hope that you will sometimes think of me?"

"I can never forget you; and, depend upon it, wherever you may be, I
shall never cease to be grateful for your past kindness to a poor
unfortunate girl like myself. God will prosper you, sir--I am sure He
will. I am far too unworthy your notice. At all times I will pray for
your happiness."

"I know not where I shall go, Margaret. I will see you but once more
before I go; but now good-bye."

They shook hands and parted--each felt a sincere wish for the other's
welfare. One felt that the hopes of his life were blighted; the other,
that her vows of attachment were unalterable.

Young Barry returned home, and found, as Margaret had supposed, his
brother Edward, who had been there some time before his return. It
needed but a look to tell what each felt. They took a turn round the
fields, and were seen arm-in-arm together. They were mutually satisfied
with each other.

Edward Barry saw and admired his brother's choice, for until then he had
never been prepossessed in her favour. The warmth of feeling which she
betrayed when looking at the countenance of her supposed lover, as he
lay in the boat-house, and the pure and simple joy at discovering the
mistake; the very sensible manner in which she proved that she could not
be mistaken; the gratitude she felt, and the exemplary manner in which
she conducted herself, all conspired to give him a high opinion of the
character of this young woman, and made him feel that, notwithstanding
the strong wish he had entertained for Laud's death, for he had even
counted upon being opposed in deadly skirmish with him, he never could
take his life without giving a deep wound to one innocent and deserving
heart.

Young Barry became another being--his health improved rapidly; he began
to work, and to talk of future days with cheerfulness.




CHAPTER XI

THE LAST INTERVIEW


About this time a new settlement was projected at New South Wales, and
Government had already sent several convict ships to Botany Bay and Port
Jackson; but the unruly state of the people, and the necessary military
government of the colony, made it very desirable that some respectable
settlers should be induced to go out. Accordingly, whenever store-ships
were sent, a premium was offered for farmers' sons or farming men to
emigrate. One hundred acres of land for as many dollars were granted:
still very few could be induced to go. It was not for some years that
any regular settlers' ship went out with free passengers.

Young Barry conversed with his father upon this subject, and found him
quite disposed to let him have double the above-named sum, and even
encouraged the idea in the youth's mind.

It so happened that Captain Johnson, who commanded one of the earliest
store-ships which was sent to that colony, was acquainted with
Lieutenant Brand, and had written to ask him if there was any young
farmer who would like to go out with him from Suffolk. It was through
him that young Barry got an introduction to Captain Johnson, who
promised him a good berth, and every convenient accommodation. It was
soon resolved that John Barry should forthwith get a grant of land; and,
being furnished with all requisite particulars, he went to London to see
his ship, and make arrangements with his captain.

All his family now felt a double interest in him because he was going
away, to leave them, perhaps, for ever--at all events for a very long
period. His sisters worked hard to make him such changes of linen as
should last him for years; and every hand they could muster in the
village, capable of doing needle-work, was fully employed. Presents of
various kinds flowed in; and, upon his return home from town, he found
himself master of more stock than he could possibly have got together
for his own use in England, though he had laboured for it for many
years. He was very cheerful, and even told his sisters that as he might,
perhaps, marry soon in the new settlement, they might make him some sets
of female apparel! They laughed with astonishment at this request; but,
as they found him earnest, they each spared something from their own
wardrobe for his most eccentric request. Little, however, did they
surmise the real motive of his heart.

The day was fixed for the vessel to sail, and John must be, with all his
goods and chattels, at London in a fortnight. The last Sabbath-day that
he spent with his father, mother, brothers, and sisters, was memorable
for the deep-rooted power it ever after retained over his mind. The
clergyman's sermon was upon the universal providence of God, and, as if
he preached it on purpose (but which was not the case, for he was
ignorant of the intended movement of the young man), he discoursed upon
the unity of the Church of Christ in every place--the communion we had
even with our antipodes in the worship of the same God. He instanced the
especial interest which the Church had with all the colonies of the
mother country, and spoke of the joy to be felt when that reunion should
take place at the resurrection of the just. The preacher spoke as if
even the poor benighted aborigines of Van Diemen's Land were his
brethren, and showed how necessary it was for us to extend to them our
helping hand to bring them to Christianity.

After service, the worthy miller told his pastor that his son was going
to that very country, and that the young man had said he never should
forget that discourse. The clergyman went home with the family, and
spent that Sabbath evening with them. He fully entered into the prospect
before the young man, and pointed out to him the sure path to heaven,
through the strait gate, and inspired him with many hopes of doing good.
He joined with them in prayer, and gave them his blessing. He promised
to send him a valuable present of books, which he performed the next
day. Bibles, testaments, prayer-books, homilies, tracts, _The Whole Duty
of Man_, together with a work on planting, farming, horticulture, and
seeds, and one on natural history and botany, all which proved of the
greatest utility to the worthy and honourable young man upon whom they
were bestowed.

The day of parting at length came--the last sad day--and the young man
remembered his promise to Margaret, that he would see her once more
before he departed. He found her at home on the Monday, that very day
upon the eve of which he was to take the mail from Ipswich for London.
He came to take a long and a last farewell. And why did he torment
himself and the poor girl with this last interview? Was it with a
lurking hope that he might persuade her to accompany him? He had really
and truly prepared for such an event, could he have brought it about. In
his chests were presents which his sisters had made at his request, in
case he should marry in the new settlement. He had suggested this; but
his heart had to the very last a lingering thought that perhaps Margaret
might be induced to embark with him. Upon what small last links will not
true love depend!

"I am come, Margaret, to take my leave of you," said he, on meeting her.
"I am going to a colony the farthest off our own dear country of any
known island in the world."

"Indeed, sir! if so I wish you well, and pray God to bless you!"

"Before I go, Margaret," resumed he, "I must tell you that as long as
life holds in this poor heart of mine, I shall never love any one else.
I may prosper--I may be rich--I may be blessed with abundance--but I
shall never be blessed with a wife."

"Oh, sir, say not so! you grieve me very much to hear you talk in that
way. You are a young man, and the path of life, though it may not be
without thorns, has yet many blessed plants for your happiness. Why
should you speak so despondingly? Change of place and occupation will
make you feel very differently."

"You may think it may be so with me, Margaret; but if there be any truth
in this last doctrine which you have yourself divulged, it will hold
good in yourself as well as in me. If you change your place of abode,
and go with me, Margaret, will not you think very differently to what
you do now? Oh, that I could persuade you! Oh, that I could induce you
to join your lot with mine! Shake off that wild attachment to the
smuggler, and go with me. I will marry you to-morrow morning before we
sail. I have even hinted the matter to my captain. He has promised to be
bridesman, and has even taken out the license, and will be ready
to-morrow at ten o'clock. No preparation will be necessary for you: I
have prepared everything. Your bridal dress is even ready; and our
honeymoon will be kept on board the _Kitty_, which is to sail to-morrow
from London. Margaret, hear me! I am sure that your present connexion
will end in ruin. What is Will Laud but a desperate fellow who cannot
and, believe me, will not protect you? What sacrifice can it be to leave
a man who would have taken you away without your consent, for one who,
with your consent, will unite all his interests with yours as long as he
lives?"

There was a pause--an awful pause--after this declaration, such as
beings feel who are held in the most agitating suspense, between life
and death. Painful--very painful--was the situation in which Margaret
was placed. There was a flood of overwhelming agitation. The tears stole
down her cheeks. Her dark eye shone like the sun through the midst of a
watery cloud, and told that it longed to burst through the mists of
darkness, but could not find an opening for its beams. Faster and faster
fell the big drops--heavier and heavier dropped the clouds of the
eyelids, till, like a flash of lightning, burst the words from her
lips--

"Oh, leave me! leave me, sir! I never can alter the pledge I have given!
I never can be unfaithful! Though I may be unhappy in my choice, yet it
is a choice to which I feel so bound, that nothing but death can part
us. Oh, that Laud were as good as yourself! I feel, I own, the contrast;
but I hope he may be better. Oh, do not urge me, sir--do not urge me to
desert the only chance left for the restoration of a young man to
honesty and life!"

"Margaret, hear then my last words, and if they fail I will leave you. I
do not believe that Laud loves you as he ought to love. Did I think
there was one chance for your happiness with him, I would not urge my
present suit a moment longer. Believe me, he is not worthy of you. You
compel me to say he is a villain. He will betray you. He will desert
you. He will bring you to want, misery, and ruin. I know you love him.
Your early feelings have all been engaged in his favour; but which of
those has he not disappointed? which of those feelings has he not
wounded? Yet you cling to him, as if he were a safe-ground of anchorage.
Believe me--believe me, Margaret, the anchor you cast there will not
hold; it will suffer you to drift upon the rocks, upon which you will
perish. Say in one word, will you, or will you not, consent to my
offer?"

"John Barry, on my knees (and she suited the action to the word) I thank
you, and bless you; but I do not--I cannot--accept your offer!"

"Margaret, farewell!" exclaimed he, as he raised her from the ground, "a
long, a last farewell. Nevertheless, take this; it is a gift, which may
some future day be of service to you. You will not refuse it, as it is
the last gift of one who will never see you again. I know you cannot
even read it now; but the time may come when you may be enabled so to
do, and I had counted in my long voyage of teaching you so to do. It was
a present to me from my mother; but I have many more like it, given me
by our clergyman. Take it--take it--it can never do you hurt; and, with
God's blessing, it may be the means of our meeting in another world,
though we never meet again in this. God bless you, Margaret! farewell!"

He placed a small clasped Bible in her hands, in the opening and the
closing leaf of which were two five-pound notes; small sums perhaps
apparently to us in this day, but magnificent compared with the means of
an early settler in a strange land. This ten pounds paid poor Margaret's
rent, and all her parents' debts, at a subsequent time, when the deepest
distress might have overwhelmed her. But Barry returned to his parents
with a noble consciousness of an upright mind. His parting with them was
not, comparatively speaking, of so passionate or stirring a nature as
that which he had so recently undergone, but it was purely affectionate
and loving.

The hour of parting is over; and John Barry, as honest and worthy a
young man as ever left the shores of Old England, was soon on board the
_Kitty_, 440 tons; and with some few others, who like himself had a mind
to try their fortunes in a foreign land, he sailed for that colony, once
the most distant and unpromising, now becoming renowned, and which
probably will be the most glorious island of the Eastern world.




CHAPTER XII

THE WELCOME VISIT


There is no greater misery upon earth than to be left alone; to feel
that nobody cares for you--nobody is interested in you; and that you are
destitute as well as desolate! Poor Margaret at this time felt something
akin to this sensation. She had a regard for the youth who had driven
himself into voluntary exile on her account. She was not, however, to
blame for this, though many a one accused her of being the cause of it.
She was shunned by those of her own sex, on account of the disreputable
character of her lover, with whom it was believed that she still held
secret correspondence, although for a long time she had heard nothing of
him. The men cared little about her, because she cared nothing about
them; but kept herself quietly at home, attending to the sick-bed of a
rapidly declining mother. Occasionally she ventured to the Priory Farm,
to ask for some few necessaries required by her aged parent. Her former
mistress was uniformly kind to her; and not contented with affording the
assistance which was asked for, this good woman visited the sick-bed of
poverty, and ministered to the wants of the aged and infirm.

Gratitude is very eloquent, if not in the multitude of words, yet in the
choice of them, because it speaks from the heart. Margaret's gratitude
was always sincere. She was a creature of feeling without cultivation,
and imbibed at once the very perfection of that spirit which all
benevolent minds wish to see; but which if they do not see, they are so
accustomed to the world that they are not very greatly disappointed.
Their surprise is rather expressed in that pleasure which they imbibe in
seeing the feeling of a truly grateful heart. An aged female, on a bed
of poverty and sickness, is but too frequently left to negligence and
want. When their infirmities are the greatest, and their cares always
the most anxious, then is it that the really charitable aid of the
benevolent is most needed.

Margaret felt her own inability to assist her aged mother, beyond the
doing for her to the best of her powers in all attendances as nurse and
housewife. She herself earned no money; but she made the best possible
use of all the earnings of the family, as at that time she had not
discovered the munificent present of poor John Barry; for, not being
able to read, she had carefully laid up the treasured book, unconscious
of the generosity and self-denial of the donor.

At this time Margaret appears to have suffered much privation. She felt
that she was dependent upon the kindness of richer friends for those
little delicacies which she required to support her mother's sinking
frame; and never was heart more sensitively grateful than this poor
girl's when she received some unexpected trifle of bounty from the table
of her indulgent mistress. She wept with joy as she bore the present
home to her affectionate but fast-sinking parent.

She had not very long to continue her nursings. Early in the year she
lost her mother. Nature could not be suspended; and she sank to rest,
with her head supported by the arms of an affectionate daughter and a
good husband.

The death of her mother was felt by Margaret very keenly. It reminded
her of her own early affliction; and a singular occurrence took place at
the funeral, which more forcibly reminded her of her sister's death. A
stranger entered the churchyard at the time of the ceremony, and stood
at the foot of the grave, and actually wept with the mourners. No one
knew who he was, or where he came from; nor did he speak to any one, but
he seemed to be much afflicted at the scene of sorrow. He remained some
time after the mourners had departed, and saw the grave filled up again;
and when the old clerk had neatly patted round the mound with his
spade, and was about to leave it, the stranger asked him if he did not
mean to turf it.

"Why, I don't know; I don't think they can afford to have it done
properly; but, at all events, I must let the earth settle a bit first."

"How long will it take to do that?"

"That depends upon the weather. Come rain, and that will soon settle;
but if frost, and dry weather continue, it will be some time first. They
cannot afford to have it flagged and binded."

"What will that cost?"

"I charge one shilling and sixpence extra for that, as I have to get the
turf from the heath; but I shall have some time to wait before I am paid
for what I have done. Time was when that family was well off; but no
good comes of bad doings."

"What do you mean, my man? what bad doings have these poor people been
guilty of?"

"I see, sir, you are a stranger in these parts, or else the Catchpoles,
especially one of them, would be known to you by common report."

"Which one is that?"

"Margaret, sir."

"Well, what of her? has she been unfortunate?"

"If she has it has been her own seeking, no one's else. She might have
done well, but she would not."

"What might she have done? and what has she done?"

"Why, sir, she might have married an industrious young man, who would
have done well by her; but she chose to encourage a vagabond smuggler,
who first set her up with high notions, and then ruined and left her to
poverty and shame."

"You do not mean to say that the young woman is a depraved and abandoned
character?"

"No, no; I mean she don't like any honester man, and so no one seems to
care anything about her."

A tear stole down the stranger's cheeks; and, whoever he was, he seemed
to feel a little relief at this information.

"Is the young woman living at home with her family?"

"Yes; because nobody will hire her. She is laughed at by the females,
and the men don't care anything about her. If they could catch her
lover, and pocket a hundred pounds reward for his capture, they would
like the chance."

"How are the family supported?"

"Why, I suppose the father earns eight shillings a week, the youngest
son one-and-sixpence; but they must have been hard run this winter, and
it will take them some time to get up their back-rent and present
expenses."

"What is the amount of their present expense?"

"Why, I must get, if I can, sixteen shillings, somehow or another. I
dare say I shall have it; but it will take them some time to pay it.
There is ten shillings for the coffin (for I am carpenter, clerk, and
sexton), three shillings and sixpence digging the grave, one shilling
for tolling the bell, and one shilling and sixpence for the clergyman;
that will exactly make the sum."

"You say it will take one shilling and sixpence extra for turfing and
binding: that will be seventeen shillings and sixpence. How much do you
think they owe at the shop?"

"I know that it cost them three shillings and sixpence for flannel; but
I know it is not paid for yet."

"There's a guinea; that will exactly pay you all, will it not?" and the
stranger pitched a guinea against the sexton's spade.

What a wonderful thing is a golden guinea in the eye of a poor parish
clerk! how reverential it makes a man feel, especially when a stranger
pays it for a poor man! He might have got it; but he must have waited
the chance till after the next harvest.

"That it will, sir--that it will. I'll call and pay the bill at the
shop. Are you coming to live in these parts?"

"Not for long--not long!" sighed the stranger.

"Why, you look very healthy, sir? You are not ill?"

"No, no, my man; I do not mean to give you a chance of getting another
guinea by me, at least for the present. I only meant to say my stay in
this village would not be for long. But where do these poor people
live?"

"Not in the same place they used to do in the days of their prosperity
and respectability. Their house now stands at the corner of the heath,
sir: shall I go with you and show it you?"

"I can find it; there are not many cottages there. Do you go and pay the
bill at the shop; and then if you have a mind to bring the receipt,
instead of giving me the trouble to call at your house for it, you will
find me at the cottage of these poor people; and hear me, old man, do
not talk to any one about this matter. You may as well bring a receipt,
also, for your own work at the same time."

"You are quite a man of business, I see, sir. I will not fail to be at
the cottage this very evening with a receipt in full."

The old sexton placed the guinea carefully at the bottom of his pocket,
and, shouldering his spade and mattock, marched off towards the village
shop. The stranger walked round Nacton churchyard. He stood sometime
attentively reading the inscription upon Admiral Vernon's mausoleum;
and, taking another look at the humble, new-made grave of Margaret
Catchpole's mother, he took the highroad to the heath, and saw the
cottage, known by the name of the Shepherd's Cot, at the verge of that
wild waste.

Meantime the following conversation was going on in that cottage:--

"I wonder," said Margaret to her father, as the old man sat by the
log-fire in the chimney-corner, "whether our brother Charles is alive or
dead?"

"I can just remember him," said the boy; "he used to be very fond of me,
and said I should make a good soldier."

"I have never heard of him," said the father, "since he went to Ipswich,
and enlisted in another name, at the Black Horse, in St. Mary Elms. I
understood that his regiment went off to India almost immediately after
he enlisted."

"I wonder if he is alive?"

"I cannot tell, my dear; the chances are very much against it. He was a
quick, intelligent, lively boy; and, when he was at work in the fields,
used often to say he should like to be a soldier. The old clerk taught
him to read and write, and used to say, 'If Charles had a chance he
would be scholar enough to succeed him as parish clerk.' He left us at
the commencement of our misfortunes; God grant he may meet us again in
happier days!"

Poor Margaret sighed; for she too well remembered the origin of all
their sorrows not to feel for her dear parent. That sigh was answered by
a sudden knock at the door, which occasioned a start. The latch was
lifted up, and in walked the stranger who had attended the funeral. His
entrance gave a change to their conversation; and Margaret placed a
chair for him, in which he quietly sat down opposite to the old
labourer. Care had worn the countenance of the venerable man more than
years and work. The only mourning of an outward kind which met the eye,
was an old piece of crape round the equally old hat which hung upon a
peg in the wall. Nothing else could be afforded; but their countenances
betokened the state of their hearts. They were really melancholy. It is
not in the outward pageantry of a funeral that real sorrow is to be
seen; and the real grief of the Shepherd's Cottage surpassed all the
pageantry of the palace, and was viewed with calm and respectful silence
by the stranger.

He was a tall, pale, thin young man, with a scar upon the side of his
face: he looked as if he had undergone much sickness or misfortune. He
was dressed in a plain suit of black, which hung rather loosely round
him. He asked Margaret if the youth beside her was her youngest brother,
and whether she had any other brothers living. She replied that it was,
to the best of her knowledge, her only brother living. He then made
inquiries concerning the illness of her late mother; and after various
other domestic matters, he looked very earnestly at Margaret, and in a
seemingly abstracted manner said, "Where is Will Laud?" It was as if an
electric shock had been given to all in the room; for all started at the
question, and even the stranger was greatly moved at his own question,
when he saw Margaret hide her face in her hands, weeping.

"I did not mean to occasion you any grief. I only asked after a man whom
I once knew as a boy, and whom the old clerk informed me you could tell
me more about than any one else."

"And do not you know more of him than we do, sir?" said the old man.

"I know nothing of him, and have heard nothing of him since I was a
youth; my question was purely accidental. I am sorry to see your
daughter so afflicted by it. Has the man been unkind to her?"

"No, sir! no!" said Margaret. "If you are here as a spy, sir, indeed we
know not where he is."

"A spy!" said the stranger; and the stranger started and muttered
something to himself. Margaret herself now began to feel alarmed; for
the stranger seemed to be deep in thought; and, as the flame from the
log of wood cast its light upon his face, she thought he looked ghastly
pale.

"A spy!" said the stranger; "what made you think me a spy?--and what
should I be a spy for?"

"I did not mean to affront you, sir; but the question you asked
concerning one for whose apprehension a hundred pounds is offered, made
me think of it. Pray pardon me, sir."

"I am sorry that he has done anything to occasion such an offer from the
Government. Has he murdered any one?"

"No, sir; but Will is a wild young man, and he attempted to kill young
Barry of Levington, and wounded him so severely, that a reward was
offered for his apprehension."

"Has Barry recovered?"

"Yes, sir; and he is gone out of the country to Canada, or some more
distant land."

"Then never mind if Laud be caught. Government will never pay a hundred
pounds for his conviction when the principal evidence cannot be
obtained. Never mind! never mind!--that will soon be forgotten."

Such words of consolation had never been uttered in Peggy's ear before.
She began to feel very differently toward the stranger, as the tone of
his voice, and his manner, together with his words, became so soothing.

"Thank you, sir, for your good wishes; you make my heart joyful in the
midst of my mourning."

"I only wish I could make it more joyful by telling you any good news of
your lover, Margaret; but though I know nothing of him, and only wish he
were more worthy of you than he is, yet I bear you tidings of some one
else of whom you will all be glad to hear."

"Our brother Charles!" both she and the boy at once exclaimed, whilst
the old man remained in mute astonishment.

"It is of your brother Charles; and first, let me tell you that he is
alive and well."

"Thank God for that!" said the father.

"Next, that he is in England, and it will not be long before you will
have the pleasure of seeing him."

At this moment the door opened, and in walked the old clerk, who, seeing
the stranger, made his bow, and gave him a piece of paper containing a
receipt for the guinea which he had received. To the surprise of all,
the stranger rose, and taking a little red box made in the shape of a
barrel, which stood on the wooden shelf over the fire-place, he
unscrewed it, and put the paper in it; and, replacing it, seated himself
again.

"You were just telling us of our brother Charles," said Margaret.

"What!" exclaimed the sexton, "is Charles alive? My old scholar! Where
is the boy? I have often thought of him. Oh! what a pity he took to
drinking! He was as good a reader as our clergyman, and beat me out and
out."

"He is not addicted to drink now, and is as sober as a man can be."

"I am glad of that. Then he will succeed in anything he undertakes. But
where has he been these many years?"

"You shall hear if you will sit down; for, as I knew him well, and was
his most intimate friend, he made me his confidant in everything. He was
always of a restless spirit; and when he left his father and friends, he
had no settled plan in his mind. He enlisted in the 33rd regiment of
Foot, which was then going out to India; and that his relatives and
friends might not grieve about him, he gave his name to the parochial
authorities of St. Mary Elms, at Ipswich, as Jacob Dedham, the name of a
boy who, he knew, was not alive. The parish-officer gave him a shilling,
and he took another shilling of the recruiting-officer.

"He was sworn in, and took his departure with many others for
Portsmouth, at which place he embarked for India, and joined the 33rd
regiment at Bombay. He was always of an aspiring and inquisitive turn of
mind. He became an active and orderly soldier, and assisted the
sergeant-major in all his writings and accounts. He soon became an adept
in all the cunning and customs of the various castes of natives in
India; was remarkable for the quickness with which he mastered the
different idioms of the different territories of the East; and at length
became so noticed by Sir William Forbes, that he introduced him to Lord
Cornwallis, who employed him upon the frontier of Persia.

"Here he became a spy, and was actively engaged for that highly
honourable and intelligent Governor-General. He readily entered into his
lordship's views; and, receiving from him a purse well stored, to
provide himself with disguises, he assumed the garb of a Moorish
priest, and with wonderful tact made himself master of all the
requisites of his office. I have here a sketch of him, in the very dress
in which he travelled through the country."

Taking out a roll from his coat-pocket, he unfolded the canvas wrapper
in which it was enclosed, and presented it to Margaret, asking her if
she recognized her brother.

With eager and interested glance she looked at the sketch, but not a
feature could she challenge. She then looked up at the stranger, and, as
she did so, said--

"It is much more like you, sir, than it is like my brother."

"I think it is full as like me as it is like him. But, such as it is,
you have it; for he commissioned me to give it to you, together with a
sketch of a fortress in which he resided a long time as the priest of
the family. This is Tabgur, on the frontiers of Persia. His master and
family are walking on the rampart-garden of the fort."

Here the old clerk could not help bursting out with an exclamation of
astonishment at the wonderful talent of his former pupil.

"I always said he would be a wonderful man, did I not, Master
Catchpole,--did I not? Did he teach himself this art, sir?"

"Indeed he did; and many others he learned, which did him equal credit.
He was a very quiet man in appearance, though he was alive to everything
around him. Many were the hairbreadth escapes he had; but his
self-possession carried him through all. He had to conceal all his
drawings of the different fortresses, all his calculations of the
inhabitants, of their forces, and their condition; but he contrived to
wrap them about his person, so that they could not be discovered.

"Once, indeed, one of his papers, written as close as pencil could
write, was picked up in the fort-garden at Tabgur, and he was suspected
for a spy; but he quickly changed their suspicions; for, observing that
his master had a bad toothache, he told him it was a charm to prevent
it. Every person, he said, for whom he wrote that charm, would be free
from the toothache as long as he kept it secreted in his turban; but it
must be one expressly written for the purpose, and for the person; and
that, during the time of its being written, the person must have a piece
of rock-salt upon that very tooth which was aching at the time. The
charm was only of use for the person for whom it was written; and, as
that one was written for himself, it could do the Persian warrior no
good. This answered well; for he got back his valuable paper, and wrote
one immediately, in the presence of his master, who, placing a piece of
rock-salt upon the tooth, found that, as he wrote, the pain was
diminished; and when he concluded, it was completely gone.

"But the next day, your brother, the Moorish priest, was gone also. He
passed over into Hindostan, changed his Moorish dress, and soon made his
way to head-quarters, where he delivered such an accurate account of all
that befell him, and of all that was required of him, that he received a
most ample reward. He called himself Caulins Jaun, the Moorish priest.

"He has been sent to England by Lord Cornwallis, to deliver some
despatches to the government, relating to the Mysore territory and
Tippoo Saib's conduct; and, having accomplished his mission, he has
asked permission to visit his poor friends at Nacton, in Suffolk. His
leave is very short, as his services are again required."

"And when may we expect him here?" exclaimed Margaret. "Oh, how I long
to see him!"

"I expect him here this night; for, as I was his companion, and am to go
back again with him, so I am his forerunner upon this occasion."

"I could almost set the village-bells ringing for joy," said the old
clerk. "I wonder whether he would know me."

"That I am sure he would."

"Pray, sir, how do you know that?"

"Because the description he gave me of you is so accurate that I could
tell you from a thousand. Do you remember the sketch he made of an old
woman throwing a cat at her husband?"

"That I do. Did he tell you of that?"

"That he did; and of the scratch he got from the cat's claws, as you
bopped your head, and puss lit directly on his face."

Here the old man could not help laughing.

"But did he tell you nothing else about the sketch?"

"That he did, and with such feeling, that I almost fancy I see now the
scrub-brush belabouring his head for his pains."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I thought he had forgotten all that."

"No; he thought of it at the very time he was sketching the forts of his
enemies' country. Had he been caught in such freaks as those, he would
have had a severer punishment than what your good dame gave him."

"But if my old dame could see him now, how rejoiced she would be; for
notwithstanding his roguery, he was a great favourite of hers!"

"She will see him to-morrow."

"That will be news for the old woman. But shall I see him this night? I
would not mind waiting till midnight for such a purpose."

"That you may. But I do not think that even you would know him, were you
to see him."

"Why not? Would he know me?"

"He would: but youth alters more in countenance than age, especially
where a foreign climate has acted upon the constitution."

"I should know him from two things," said Margaret. "He once so nearly
cut off the end of his little finger with a sharp tool, that it hung
only by a piece of skin: it was bound up, so that it adhered and grew
together; but somehow, the tip got a twist, so that the nail of the
finger grew under the hand: it was the left hand."

"And what was the other mark?"

"It was a deep scar on the back of the same hand, caused by imprudently
cutting off a large wart."

"Now tell me," said the stranger, drawing the glove off his left hand,
"were the scars you mention anything like those?"

"Exactly," said the clerk, who looked at him again and again with
amazement.

"Why, you can't be he? Are you Master Charles?"

"Can you doubt it?"

"The hand is his."

"And the hand is mine. Therefore the hand is the hand of Charles."

The old man rose, and coming forward said, "I do believe you are my son;
I have been thinking so for some time, and I am now satisfied that it is
so. God bless you, my boy! You are come at a seasonable hour, for the
Lord gives and takes away as He sees best."

A hearty embrace and affectionate recognition took place. The stranger
(now no longer such) soon convinced them of his identity; and though no
one could really have known a single feature of his countenance, yet he
gave them such internal and external evidences of his relationship,
calling to mind so many circumstances of such deep interest to them all,
that he was soon acknowledged to be their relative.

Happiness comes unexpectedly in the days of mourning. The wild recruit
had returned, after many days, to cheer an aged parent and a forlorn
sister, who needed the hand of some one to help them in their troubles.
The old man's heart revived again; and it was a pleasure to witness the
joys of the few days which then visited the Catchpoles, and the
congratulations which they received from the old clerk and his wife upon
the bright prospects of a hopeful son. Reports spread like wildfire that
Charles Catchpole had come home, and that he had returned from India as
rich as a Nabob. Reports are generally exaggerated, and they were not a
little so in the present case; for although Charles might be
comparatively rich, his fortune, as the world terms it, was anything but
made. He had a few guineas to spare; but he had to return to India, and
to pursue a very hazardous course of life, before he could even hope to
gain that independence which had been promised to him. A few guineas,
however, made a great show in a cottage. He paid his father's debts;
made a present to the old clerk's wife; bought his sister a new gown;
his younger brother, Edward, a new suit of clothes; paid one year's rent
in advance for the cottage; left a present with the sexton to keep his
mother's grave ever green; and announced his departure to his family
after staying one short week after five years' absence.

"I shall see you no more, Charles!" exclaimed Margaret, at parting. "I
fear that I shall see you no more! You are going through a dangerous
country, and the perils you have already escaped you must not always
expect to avoid."

"Fear not, Peggy, fear not. God sent me in a proper season to comfort
you, and if you trust in Him, He will send you some other friend in
need, if it be not such a one as myself."

"Oh, let me go with you, dear brother! I should like to accompany you,"
said Edward, his brother.

"That cannot be, Edward. You must remain at home to help your father and
sister; you are not able to undertake a march of many thousand miles,
under a sun burning your face, and a sand scorching your feet. I have a
good friend, however, in Lord Cornwallis, and I have no doubt that some
time hence I shall be enabled to do you some service. I do not recommend
you to be a soldier; but if you wish it, when I see his lordship I will
ask him to help you. You shall hear from me in the course of a year or
so; in the meantime make all the progress you can in reading and writing
with the old clerk, and be industrious. I must be in London to-morrow,
and shall soon sail for India. I shall never forget any of you."

"God bless you all!--good-bye," were the parting words of Charles
Catchpole. There is in that short sentence, "Good-bye," a melancholy
sense of departure which the full heart cannot express.

"Good-bye!--good-bye!" and Margaret gave vent to her grief in tears,
whilst the old man clasped his hands in silent prayer.

The fond brother and affectionate son is gone; and never did Margaret
see that brother again. She was shortly to change her place of abode.
Her uncle Leader, who lived at Brandiston, and who had a young family,
and was left a widower, sought the assistance of his niece; and though
her father could but ill spare her, yet as there were so many children,
and Margaret was so good a nurse, he could not refuse his consent. There
was another feeling, too, which prompted the good old man to spare her.
Though he loved his daughter's company, he knew that she deserved to be
thought better of by many who disregarded her in her own neighbourhood,
and he thought a change would be good for her. It might produce in her a
change of mind towards Will Laud--a thing he most earnestly wished for,
though he would not grieve her by saying so. It would at all events
remove her from many little persecutions which, though she professed not
to feel them, he knew weighed heavily on her spirits; and come what
might, even should Laud return, he was not known there, and he might be
a happier man. Under all these circumstances, he not only gave his
consent, but urged her going. She left her father's roof on the Monday
with her uncle.




CHAPTER XIII

POVERTY AND PRIDE


On the evening of the very day on which Margaret quitted her father's
roof for that of her uncle, as the old man was sitting pensively at his
cottage fire, a knock at the door announced a visitor. The door opened,
and in walked Will Laud, together with his friend, John Luff.

"Good-evening, father," said Will. "We are come now from the shore. Our
boat is once more moored to the rails at the landing-place, by Orwell
Park, and we are come across the lands to see you. We had some
difficulty in finding out your berth. You have changed your place of
abode."

"Say that you have changed it for us, and you will be nearer the mark.
For ever since we knew you and your companion, we have known nothing but
changes, and few of them for the better."

"Things cannot always change for the worse, surely."

"I wonder you are not afraid to be seen in this part of the country.
There are many here, Will, that would be glad of a hundred pounds, the
price set upon your head."

"And yourself foremost of that number, I dare say," said the gruff
smuggler who accompanied Will Laud.

The old man looked at him with a placid but firm countenance, and said,
"That is the language of a villain! Do you think I am so fond of money
as yourself; or that I would sell my daughter's lover for a hundred
pounds? The door you have just opened is not yet closed, and if such be
your opinion, the sooner you take your departure hence the better."

"Humph! humph!" said Luff. "You need not be so crusty, Mr.
Catchpole--you need not be so boisterous. We have not seen the inside of
a house for many a long month, and if this be the first welcome we are
to have, it is rather ominous."

"What welcome do those men deserve who cause the ruin of others?"

"We have not intentionally caused your ruin, father," said Laud; "but we
come in peace; we wish to abide in peace, and to depart in peace."

"Then you should teach your friend to keep his foul tongue still, or it
will cause you more trouble than you are aware of."

"I miss the principal ornament of your house, Master Catchpole," said
Will. "Where are all the females gone?"

"Some are gone where I hope soon to join them; the one you feel most
interest about is gone to service."

"I was told, not an hour ago, that Margaret lived at home with you."

At this instant the door was opened, and young Edward Catchpole entered.
He had been to put his sheep safe into fold, and came whistling home,
with little thought of seeing any strangers in his father's cottage.

"Boy, do you know me?" was the inquiry made by Will Laud.

"Not yet," said the younger; "but I can give a shrewd guess; and I can
tell you something which will soon prove whether I guess right or not.
As I came over the heath, I met two sailors, who appeared to me to
belong to the preventive service. They were on horseback. They stopped
and asked me if I had seen a cart, and whether it was going fast, and
which road it took; whether it went across the heath, or along the road.
I told them plainly it was before them, and that it had turned down the
road towards the decoy-ponds. They then asked me if I had met two
sailor-looking men walking. To this, of course, I said No. But I suspect
they must have meant you."

"How could that be?" said Laud. "We came not along the road."

"No; but you might have seen some one who was going to Nacton Street,
and they might have been inquired of."

"That's true, indeed. We had to ask where your father lived, and our
curiosity concerning your family has led to this pursuit of us."

"One of the men I think I have seen before, and, if I mistake not, it is
the same Edward Barry that my sister and I went to see at Bawdsey
boat-house."

"Your sister went to see Edward Barry! What on earth for, my lad?"

"Nay, don't be jealous, Laud. There was a report that you were drowned,
and that your body was cast on shore. The bearer of that report was your
rival, John Barry. Margaret would not believe that report, unless she
should see your body. So I drove her there, and Edward Barry, who had
the key of the boat-house, permitted her to see the bodies, which
satisfied her that the report was unfounded."

The two men looked significantly at each other, as much as to say, "It
is time for us to be off."

"I have one question more to ask," said Laud. "Where is Margaret?"

"She is gone to service at her Uncle Leader's, of Brandiston. It is no
great place for her, but she will be out of the way of reproaches she
has suffered, Laud, on your account. Moreover, she has refused the hand
of a most respectable young man, whom I should have been glad that she
would have accepted. But he is gone to a distant land, and neither you
nor I, Will, shall see him again. John Barry has sailed, as a free
settler, either to Van Diemen's Land, or to Canada, I know not which."

These words were most welcome to the listener's heart. He had not heard
any which sounded so joyful to him for a long time. He made no reply,
however, but tendered a purse to the old man.

"No; keep your money to yourself, Laud, and make an honest use of it. I
would not touch it, if I was starving. But you may rest here if you
please, and such cheer as my poor cot can afford you shall be welcome
to, for my dear daughter's sake!"

"No, no, I thank you. We must be on board our ship again to-night. Our
bark is in the river, and if the enemy catch us, he will show us no
quarter. So good-night, father, good-night!"

"I do not wish to detain you, but hear me, Laud. If you have a mind to
make my poor girl happy, leave off your present life, and this
acquaintance too, this man's company."

"Come on!" said Luff, impatiently--"Come on! We've got no time to lose.
Our boat will be fast upon the mud. Good-night, old man, and when you
and I meet again, let us be a little more friendly to each other."

It was well for both of them that they departed as they did; for,
shortly after they were gone, the tramp of horses along the road told of
the return of the coastguard.

They stopped at Catchpole's cottage, and calling aloud, young Edward
went out to them.

"Hold our horses, young man, will you? we want to light our pipes."

"By all means," said Edward, coming to the little garden-gate. Both men
alighted, and he could see that they were well armed. They walked
directly to the door; and seeing the old man seated by the fire, one of
them said--

"We want to light our pipes, Master Catchpole. It is a blustering night.
Have you a tobacco-pipe, for I have broken mine rather short?"

The old man took one from his corner and gave it to young Barry, whom,
from his likeness to his brother, he could distinguish, and simply said,
"You are welcome to it, sir."

"Your son sent us on a wrong scent to-night."

"I do not think he did so knowingly. I heard him say he met you; and he
told me he directed you aright."

"We saw nothing of the cart. We have reason to believe that a rich
cargo of goods has been landed at Felixstowe, and that the last
cart-load went along this road to Ipswich. Have you had any of your old
seafaring friends here? Are there any here now? You know who I mean."

"You may search and see for yourself. Every door of this house will open
at your trial. If that is sufficient answer to your question, you are
welcome to take it. Nay, I wish most heartily that you and your brother
had been my friends long before the one to whom you allude had ever
darkened my door."

When the young man remembered his brother's attachment, and the really
worthy object of it, there was a grateful feeling which came over his
mind, notwithstanding the disappointment which his brother, himself, and
his family had experienced, which made him feel respect for the old man.

"I thank you, Master Catchpole--I thank you. Had such been the case, you
might have had a good son, and I should not have lost a good brother;
and in my conscience I believe I should have gained a good sister. But
there is no accounting for a woman's taste. I tell you honestly, Master
Catchpole, that for your daughter's sake I wish her lover, or the man
she loves, were a worthier character."

"I know that both she and I wish it so--she with hope--I, alas! confess
that I have no hope of that. As long as he lives he will never alter,
except for the worse."

"I wish it may be otherwise. But come, my mate, it is no use our waiting
here, we must go on to Felixstowe. If at any time, Master Catchpole, I
can be of service to you, you have nothing to do but to send a messenger
to Bawdsey Ferry, and the brother of him who is now far away will do
what he can to help you. Good-night, Master Catchpole!"

They returned to their horses, mounted them again, and telling Ned that
he might drink their healths whenever he pleased, gave him sixpence, and
rode off.

"Father," said Edward, when he was again seated by the fire, "I do
not--I cannot like that fellow Laud; and how Margaret can endure him is
to me strange."

"She knew him, my boy, before he became the character he now is."

"I am sorry to lose my sister; but she will at least be better off where
she is, and far away from reproaches. We must make out without her aid
as well as we can. Our old sexton's sister has promised to come and do
for us; so we shall have some help."

So father and son consoled themselves; and after their frugal meal
returned to their straw-stuffed beds; and slept upon their cares.

Meantime it was no small task that Margaret had undertaken. She was to
be as a mother to seven young children, and to keep her uncle's house in
order, and to provide everything to the best of her power. But her
spirit was equal to the undertaking; and the new life which came to her
through change of place and people soon animated her to those exertions
necessary to her position--a situation so difficult and arduous.

Place a woman in a domestic station, where the power of a mistress and
the work of a servant are to be performed, and see if she cannot show
what a quantity of work may be done with one pair of hands. A good head,
and a kind heart, and a willing hand, are virtues which, as long as
industry and honesty are praiseworthy, will be sure to succeed.

Her uncle was but a labourer, earning twelve shillings a week at the
utmost, and that by working over-hours. At that time of day such wages
were considered very large; and where the housewife was active with her
loom, or the aged with her spinning-wheel, labourers used sometimes to
lay by something considerable, and not unfrequently rose to be
themselves masters. The wages which Mr. Leader earned were sufficient,
in the hands of this active girl, to provide every necessary for the
week, and to lay by something for rent.

She soon made the eldest girl a good nurse; and gave her such a method
of management as saved herself much trouble. In the first place, she
began her rule with a most valuable maxim of her own inculcation: "A
place for everything, and everything in its place." Another of her
maxims was: "Clean everything when done with, and put it up properly and
promptly." Also, "Whenever you see anything wrong, put it right."
"Everything that is broken should be either mended or thrown away." She
would not admit of waste in anything. Among her good old saws was also:

     Early to bed, and early to rise,
     Makes a man healthy, and wealthy, and wise.

She would never suffer a bill to stand beyond the week at any shop. The
Saturday night, at nine o'clock, saw her and her uncle's family out of
debt, and the children all clean washed, with their white linen laid out
for the Sabbath-day. And to see, on that holy day, with what quiet,
hushed little feet they entered, four of them at least, the village
church of Brandiston, with their foster-mother, was a sight which caught
the attention of every well-disposed person in the parish. Master
Leader's luck in a housekeeper was soon spoken of; and many a parent
pointed out Margaret as a good chance for a poor man.

Up to this time Margaret could not read a single word: but she was very
glad when the vicar's lady undertook to send two of the children to the
village-school. She encouraged them to learn their daily tasks, and made
them teach her in the evening what they had learned at the school in the
day; and in this manner she acquired her first knowledge of letters. The
children took such pleasure in teaching her, that they always paid the
greatest attention to their lessons.

Margaret was now comparatively happy in the performance of her duties;
and felt relieved from the restraint and reproach which at Nacton, where
her father lived, had been attached to her character, on account of
William Laud. How long she might have continued in this enviable state
of things it would be difficult to surmise; but she seemed fated to
encounter untoward circumstances over which she could exercise no
control. She conducted herself with the greatest propriety. The children
loved her as they would a kind parent; and all who knew her in the
village of Brandiston esteemed her for her able conduct of her uncle's
family. Had that uncle himself been a wise man, he would never have
given occasion for Margaret to leave him: but no man is wise at all
hours; and Mr. Leader, though a very honest, good labourer, and a steady
man in his way, in an hour of too little thought, perhaps, or of too
superficial promise of happiness, chose to take unto himself a new wife;
a fat buxom widow of forty, owner of two cottages, and two pieces of
land in Brandiston Street, and a little ready money besides, with only
one little daughter, engaged his attention. He, poor simple man,
thinking he might better his condition, save his rent, and add to his
domestic comfort, consented, or rather entreated, that the banns might
be published for his second marriage.

Had the woman herself been a wise one, she would have seen how requisite
Margaret's care was to the family. But she became mistress, and must
command every one in the house--her house too! and she was not to be
interfered with by any one. She would not be dictated to in her own
house. No! though her husband had a niece who might have been all very
well, yet he had now a wife, and a wife ought to be a man's first
consideration--a wife with a house over her head, her own property.

Men may have notions of the greatness of their possessions; but a weak
woman, when once she has an all-absorbing and over-weening idea of her
own great wealth, becomes so infatuated with the possession of power
which that property gives her, that there are scarcely any bounds to her
folly. Money may make some men, perhaps many, tyrants; but when a woman
exercises the power of money alone, she becomes the far greater tyrant.
Her fondness for wealth makes her more cruel and unnatural in her
conduct; she forgets her sex--her nature--her children--her
friends--her dependents--and, alas! her God!

And soon did the new Mrs. Leader make a chaos of that family which had
recently been all order and regularity. The management of household
affairs was taken out of Margaret's hands. Bills were left to be paid
when the new mistress received the rents of her cottages and land. The
children were foolishly indulged; turned out to play in the street;
taught to disregard Margaret, and to look upon her as a servant; her
daughter was never to be contradicted; in short, every one in the house
was to bend to the will of its new mistress.

Such a change had taken place in the comforts and conduct of the house,
that Margaret, with all her care could manage nothing. She was thwarted
in all she did--eyed with jealousy on account of the praise bestowed
upon her--taught continually to remember and know herself and her
station--and to behave with more respect to her betters, or else to quit
the house.

Margaret had a sweet temper, and really loved her uncle and the
children, or she could not have endured so long as she did the
waywardness of this purse-proud woman.

Matters had been going on in no very pleasant manner in Mr. Leader's
cottage, and Margaret had found herself in a very uncomfortable
situation. She had been quite removed from her honourable station, as
governess of the family, and had been treated as a very unworthy menial
by her ignorant aunt.

While things were in this state, it so happened, that one evening in the
month of April, Margaret was sent from her aunt's cottage to the village
shop to purchase some article that was wanted for the morrow. It was
late when she went out, and the shop stood completely at the end of the
village. It was one of those general shops, half a good dwelling-house,
and half a shop, where the respected tenant carried on a considerable
business without much outward show.

A lane branched off from the main street leading down to the vicarage,
called the Church Road. It was, properly speaking, the Woodbridge Road
from Brandiston. At the moment Margaret was passing over this crossway
towards the shop, she was accosted by the familiar voice of one asking
where Mr. William Leader lived. Margaret replied:--

"I am now come from Mr. Leader's. He is my uncle. Do you want to see
him?"

"No, Margaret, it is yourself I am in search of. Do you not know my
voice?"

It was William Laud!

The reader must conceive the joy, the astonishment, the surprise, the
fear, or all these sensations combined in one, which Margaret, the
persecuted Margaret, felt in being thus accosted by her lover. Did it
require any great persuasion to induce her to turn aside at such a
moment, and walk a little way down the Church Road, past the Old Hall,
with one she had not seen or heard of for so long a time; one whom, with
a woman's faithfulness, she still loved with all the strength of her
mind and heart?

"I have been very ill, Margaret," said Laud, "since I came ashore and
saw your father and brother. It was the very evening of the day you left
home. Had you left one day later, I should have seen you, and, perhaps,
I might have been spared a fever which has reduced me to the verge of
the grave."

"It is so long since I have seen or heard of you, William, that I began
to think you had forgotten me."

"I have never forgotten you, Margaret, and I never shall, till I cease
to remember anything. In storm and tempest, in calm and sunshine; in the
midnight watch, or under the clear blue sky; in danger or in safety, in
health or in sickness; in the hour of boisterous mirth, or in the rough
hammock of the seaman, when the dash of waves and the whistling winds
have swept by me, Margaret, I have always thought of you; but never more
than in those moments of fever and anxiety, when I have been suffering
from the extremes of pain and sickness. Then, Margaret, I remembered
your soothing kindness; and then I bitterly felt your absence. But have
you forgotten and forgiven my rough conduct, when we last met, a long
time ago? I am alone now, and but a poor creature."

"I have not forgotten, William, because I cannot forget; but I have
always forgiven you. Much, much have I suffered on your account; shame,
reproach, and poverty, have visited me through you--loss of kindred,
friends, and companions; but God has enabled me to bear all, with the
hope that I should one day see you an altered man."

"Yes, Margaret, yes; and so you shall. I am altered much--I long to
leave my present line of life and to settle in some place where I never
was known. Captain Bargood has given me his word, that, after one more
voyage, I shall be released, with prize-money sufficient to settle
anywhere I please, and to give me a free passage to that place, be it
where it may."

"I can only say, William, I wish that one voyage was over. I hate your
companions and your employment. I fear to lose you again, William. Oh,
why not get some honest work on land, and let me toil for and with you?"

"Margaret, I am here upon my word of honour to the captain, that I would
go one more run for him. I have been a long trip this last time, across
the Atlantic, and I am promised a different tack the next time. But it
will soon be over, and then I will renounce them all. The captain has
nursed me in his own house, and though a rough fellow and a poor
comforter for a sick man, yet I believe he did his best, and I am bound
to be grateful to him."

"I wish your duty taught you, Will, some better obligation. My heart
misgives me for you; and I can never sanction a day in unlawful
pursuits. I grieve for you. But time steals away, William, and I have
forgotten my own duty. I have not a very kind mistress in my new aunt;
but my duty is obedience. I have to go to shop now, and I fear it will
be closed if I delay any longer. When shall I see you again, William?"

"I fear me, not until this last voyage is over. I hope that will be a
short one. I shall just go into the King's Head, refresh myself, and
start again for the coast by daylight."

"Well, William, you have my prayers and my love, and I hope you may one
day claim my duty. At present, that duty is due to my uncle. So we must
part!--Take care of yourself.--How did you catch that fever?"

"By over-exertion in returning to my boat by Orwell Park, the night I
left your father. We struck across the country, as we heard of our
pursuers, and came to the shore greatly heated with our run. The wind
was fair for us, and I had nothing else to do but to sit still. I
covered myself with a piece of damp sail and fell asleep, and when I
awoke I found myself as stiff as a mast--I could not move a limb. But I
will take care of myself for your sake, Margaret, for the future."

By this time they had just arrived at the vicarage palings, upon their
return, where the angle of the street branched off, and for a moment
they paused to take the farewell salute which faithful lovers ever
appreciate.

They little thought who was near to hear their last parting words, and
to witness that love which they thought no one but themselves beheld.
The farewell was spoken, and Laud departed. Margaret stood a moment,
with affectionate heart and tearful eye, to watch his receding form, and
then, turning round the corner to go to the shop, she encountered the
enraged Mrs. Leader. She could only walk on in passive silence through
the village, whilst her aunt's voice, rising higher and higher as she
approached her own domicile, made the neighbours peep out of their
windows to learn the cause of such a disturbance. At last they arrived
at home, and Mr. Leader, with a thousand exaggerations, was informed of
his niece's atrocious conduct.

She eyed the poor girl with such malignant satisfaction, as if she had
already seen her condemned, by judge, jury, counsel, and all the court.
Poor Margaret! she had not attempted to speak; she felt for her
uncle--she felt for his children--she felt for her lover; but for
herself, nothing. She knew her own heart, and felt keenly the cruelty
and injustice of her aunt's spiteful accusations; but that did not wound
her so much as to see the crestfallen distress of the master of that
cottage, who, but a short time before, never addressed her but in thanks
or praise.

Margaret sighed, looked at her uncle, and briefly explained her
accidental meeting with William Laud.

This only caused Mrs. Leader to break out into a fresh passion. She
abused her husband, abused Margaret, her lover, her father, her brother,
and every one connected with her. The base reflections she heard cast
upon her family roused the poor girl's indignation, and, after telling
the enraged woman a few home truths, expressed her determination to quit
the house.

"I shall leave you now--yes, before another hour is gone. I shall only
kiss the children, pack up my little bundle, and then I take my
departure. Uncle, I have done my duty by you, and I sincerely wish you
happy. I have had nothing of you, and have nothing to leave behind me,
but my humble blessing for yourself and your children. Give me your
hand, uncle; let _us_, at all events, part good friends. You know that I
do not mind the night. A journey to me at this time, under these
circumstances, is no more than a journey would be by day. As to you,
aunt Leader, whether you shake hands with me or not must rest with your
own self. I would not part even with you in malice. Good-bye, aunt
Leader. Good-night!"

Mrs. Leader had heard enough; she had met with a spirit which, when
roused, was equal to her own; and though she looked as if she could have
dashed the poker at the poor girl before her, she dared not stir an
inch: the fury fell back from her seat, and went off in a fit.

Margaret stayed that night, but not another day. The next morning she
set her uncle's breakfast out, saw the children dressed, and sent to the
school, and then went upstairs to pack up her own bundle. Before doing
so, however, the Bible, which had been given her by John Barry,
attracted her attention. It was a small clasped book, and, from being
unable to read it, she had never made any outward parade of her
possession of it. On now seeing it, she mechanically unclasped the book,
and in the first page there lay a £5 bank-note, and in the last page
another of the same value. What a treasure was here! How did her heart
bless the noble generosity of the youth who, at a time when money was of
the greatest value to him, thus sacrificed a great share of his riches
to the welfare of one who could never personally thank him for it!

Margaret had made up her mind, however, to seek a situation for herself
in Ipswich. She remembered the kindness of the worthy surgeon who had
attended her sister in her childhood, and poor John Barry when he was
wounded, and she resolved to seek his aid. With a full heart, she
carefully replaced the notes as she found them, resolving to store them
up against a time of need. And, with more consciousness of independence
than she had ever before felt, she packed up her little bundle, and went
to take leave of her uncle and aunt.

With five shillings, the gift of her uncle, a half-guinea, the gift of
her brother Charles, and a bundle, not a very weighty one, Margaret
Catchpole departed from Brandiston. But, fearing her aunt's displeasure,
and that she would send strange reports to Nacton, and that her own
presence under her father's roof would give some countenance to these
malicious falsehoods, she determined not to return home, but to take the
road to Woodbridge.

At that time, Noller's wagon, from Ipswich to Woodbridge, Wickham
Market, and Framlingham, passed her upon its return; and the driver
asking her if she would like to ride, she gladly accepted the offer.
They arrived at Ipswich about two o'clock in the afternoon. Margaret
determined to seek a place immediately, and for that purpose brushed the
dust off her gown, and made herself as decent as her poor wardrobe would
allow, and arrived at the door of Mr. George Stebbing, under very
different circumstances from those which had formerly brought her to the
same spot.




CHAPTER XIV

A CHEERFUL CHANGE


He was a merry, cheerful man, the active surgeon, who lived in the tall,
red-bricked house, in Orwell Place. His practice was good, extending
from the best families in the town and neighbourhood of Ipswich, to that
which is always the most benevolent part of a surgeon's duty, the
dispensing medicine and advice to the poor. George Stebbing was an early
riser, and a very active practitioner; he was skilful and attentive; and
it was truly said of him, that he never neglected a poor patient to
attend a rich one. He had his rounds before breakfast, among his poorer
patients; next his town practice; and his country visits in the
afternoon. He generally contrived to be found at home from nine to ten
o'clock in the morning; and from two to three in the afternoon, always
dining at one.

There was one passion, if it may be so called, which, at certain seasons
of the year, made the doctor break through all his rules and
regulations, and to which he so willingly gave way, as to cause him
serious loss of practice among family patients, who could not make
allowances for his neglect,--namely, a passion for shooting. He was an
excellent shot, delighted in the exercise, and enjoyed it as much in his
old days as he did in his youth. His figure scarcely ever altered
through life. He never grew corpulent, never inactive; but retained his
zest for his gun, with a steady hand, to a good old age.

But for this passion for shooting, the doctor might have secured for
himself a more extensive and lucrative practice. It certainly was a kind
of passport among many great landed proprietors, who liked his shooting
and his society, and for a good day's shooting, come it when it might,
many of his patients were neglected. He was of a very generous nature,
and sometimes felt keenly the reproaches of those whom for the sports of
the field he deserted; and there were times in which his own conscious
neglect made him sorrowful; but it did not cure him of his favourite
propensity. At all other times, he was as regular as a well-cleaned
clock.

Margaret arrived at this gentleman's door, and was shown into the
surgery just as he was preparing to go into the country. The surgery was
a lofty room, though of small dimensions; the window looked down a
neatly paved area, beside the offices of the house; and flower-stands,
filled with geraniums and other green-house plants, stood against the
side of the wall opposite the kitchen. All was neatness within and
without the walls of his house.

She had scarcely been seated in the surgery a minute, before in came the
merry man, with his cheerful smile and ready address. "Well, young
woman, what's the matter with you, eh? What is it? A bad tooth? let us
see--let us see. It can be nothing else. You look the picture of health!
What's the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, sir," said Margaret, rising and curtsying.

"Then what do you want with the doctor, my girl?"

"I am come to ask you, sir, if you could help me to a place."

"A place!" cried the doctor; "why, whom do you take me for? Did you
think my surgery was a register-office for servants? What have I to do
with places? Who on earth sent you to me?"

"No one sent me, sir; I came of my own accord, because you are the only
person that I know in Ipswich."

"Well, they say a great many more people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool
knows. I don't recollect ever seeing you before. I know not who you are
in the least."

"What, sir! do you not remember when you lifted me off the pony at your
door, ever so many years ago, and called me a brave little girl, and
told me, when you left me at my father's, that if ever I wanted a friend
I should find one in you?"

"What! are you the girl that made the pony go? Can you be Margaret
Catchpole, the heroine of Nacton Turf?"

"I am Margaret, sir; I left my uncle's, at Brandiston, this morning, and
am come to Ipswich in search of a place. I have lost my sister, my
mother, and two brothers, and, knowing no one in Ipswich but you, I
thought, sir, as you promised to help me, you would not be offended at
my asking. I only want to work and live without being burdensome to any
one."

"Well, and what place do you want, my girl?"

"I can do any kind of plain work, sir, from the cow-house to the
nursery."

"Nursery! nursery! do you know anything about the care of children?"

"I am very partial to children, sir, and children are very fond of me;
my uncle had seven little ones, and only me to look after them until he
married again."

"Humph!--Well, go into my kitchen, my girl"--and here the kind-hearted
man opened his door and introduced her to his cook. "Sally, this is the
girl that rode the pony for the doctor, see and take care of her. Where
is your young mistress?" But suddenly turning round as if a thought
struck him he said, "Margaret! Margaret! my girl, stop one moment, I
must know if you have quite recovered from that complaint you had
before you left the Priory Farm?"

"Dear me, sir, I never was ill there."

"Oh! yes, you were, Margaret; if you remember, I had to feel your pulse
and prescribe for you; your heart was very bad?"

"Oh! no, sir, I hope not."

"Let me ask you one question, Margaret--Have you done with the smuggler?
Because, though I should be glad to serve _you_, I should be sorry to
run the risk of introducing bad acquaintances into any respectable
family where I might recommend you."

This was another terrible blow for poor Margaret, and how to answer it
she knew not; she remained silent and abashed, and the worthy surgeon
was touched more by her silence than if she had spoken ever so much; it
told him at once the state of the case.

"Well, well, my girl, I see how it is; but you must not encourage him to
visit you when you are at service. Go! go! I will talk to you another
time."

And Margaret was again an inmate in that kind man's house, who always
was a steady and sincere friend to her throughout her eventful career.
He had at that very time made up his mind to write a note of
recommendation to a lady who lived at the Cliff, upon the banks of the
Orwell; but he delayed it for a day or two, on purpose to hear what
report his own domestic gave of her. And here Margaret remained in the
humblest and purest enjoyment of peace and quietness that she had felt
for many years.

It was a lovely evening in the latter part of the month of May, when the
mackerel-boats were coming up the Orwell, being unable to reach the
mouth of the Nore, that old Colson (better known to the reader as
Robinson Crusoe) rowed his little boat up to the landing-place, close to
the Cliff Brewery, and startled some young children who were watching
the tiny eels playing about those large dark stones which formed the
head of the landing-place. Here a stream of fresh water, gushing from
beneath, formed the outlet of the canal stream which turned the great
wheel in the brewery of John Cobbold, Esq.

The eels from the river, especially the young ones, used to be
incessantly playing about this outlet, striving either to get up into
the fresh water, or else feeding upon the animalculæ which came from the
canal, and tried to get back again out of the salt water.

The old man lifted up some small sand-dabs for the children, all alive
and kicking, and gave them to them, with which they soon bounded up the
Cliff steps, and ran joyously to a lady, who, with two gentlemen, sat
sketching under the lime-trees which then fronted the small
dwelling-house adjoining the more lofty buildings of the brewery.

The lady was Mrs. Cobbold, and the two gentlemen were her friends, and
both eminent artists in their day. One had already greatly distinguished
himself as a portrait-painter, and vied with Sir Joshua Reynolds in his
own particular school of painting: this was Gardiner, a distant relative
of the lady. He was a singular old gentleman, in every way a talented
original; his family groups, in half crayon, half water-colour, gained
general admiration; and to this day they stand the test of years, never
losing their peculiar freshness, and remain as spirited as on the first
day they were painted. The other was indeed but a boy, a fine
intelligent lad, with handsome, open countenance, beaming with all the
ardour of a young aspirant for fame: this was John Constable, who was
then sketching the town of Ipswich from the Cliff, and brushing in the
tints of the setting sun, and receiving those early praises from the
lips of that benevolent and talented lady which became a stimulus to his
exertions, before he was raised to the eminence of a first-rate
landscape-painter.

Gardiner delighted in the buoyant group of children, who, with their
flapping fish, came bounding up the Cliff. "Look here! look here! see
what old Robin has given us."

The artist's eyes dilated with glee as he quickly noted down their
jocund faces and merry antics for some future painting. If he had
experienced pleasure in the character of James, Thomas, George,
Elizabeth Ann, and Mary, what a fine master-figure was now added to the
group in the person of old Robin, the fisherman, who, with his basket of
mackerel and soles, stood behind the children in front of the happy
party!

Gardiner's picture of the "Fisherman's Family" was taken from this
group, and it was one which in his mature years gained him much
celebrity.

"Well, Robin, what fish have you got?" said the lady, "and how do the
witches treat you?"

"As to the first, madam, here are mackerel and soles; as to the latter,
they treat me scurvily!"

"What's that? what's that?" said Gardiner; "what's all that about the
witches?"

Old Colson looked at him a minute, and partly believed he was a brother
sufferer; for Gardiner never was what the world has since denominated a
dandy, he was never even a beau; he was careless in his dress, and very
abrupt in his address,--extremely clever and extremely eccentric.

"Why, this is it," said the old fisherman, "if the foul fiend treats you
as he does me, he makes us both such hideous objects that nobody can
bear to look at us."

There was no little colour in the artist's face at this moment: he had
met with a light and shade, an odd mixture upon his palette not easily
defined, and he looked himself rather vacant upon the fisherman.

"I see how it is," said Robin; "they have been at work upon you, and
have put your robes out of order; but give them a blast of this ram's
horn, and you will soon get rid of them."

Here the old man presented a ram's horn to the astonished artist.

"What does the man mean, Mrs. Cobbold? what does the man mean?"

This was rather a delicate point to answer; but the little shrewd Mary,
who perfectly well knew what the old man meant, said at once with the
most perfect innocence--

"Oh, Mr. Gardiner! Robin means that you look so dirty and shabby that
you must be bewitched."

At this moment a servant brought a note to the lady, which, on opening,
she read as follows:--

     "MY DEAR MADAM,

     "You mentioned to me some time since that you wanted a good strong
     girl who could assist in the double capacity of a laundress and a
     nursery-maid; the bearer of this is Margaret Catchpole, whom I have
     known from her infancy. My cook tells me she is very quick at
     learning, and very handy at any work that may be required of her;
     she also states herself to be very fond of children. She lived
     servant-of-all-work at the Priory Farm, and has since kept her
     uncle's house, where she has had the care of seven young children.
     Mr. Notcutt, who knew her when she lived at service at Bealings,
     speaks highly of her character. I think you will find her a very
     useful servant; and if you have not engaged one, I really think you
     will be satisfied with this young woman. Wishing that such may be
     the case, believe me to remain, my dear madam, yours faithfully,

                                    "GEORGE STEBBING.
       "Orwell Place,
       "May 25th, 1793."


As Mrs. Cobbold opened the note, the artists retired; and she told the
footman to send the young woman round to the front of the house, and she
would speak to her there. She then kindly addressed the old fisherman:--

"I wish, Robin, I could find a charm which would drive all these fiends
away from you at once, that you might become a believer in a more
blessed agency than in such unhappy beings."

"Ah! bless you, lady! bless you! If your wish could but be gratified, I
should soon be at liberty; but it will never be so: they have taken up
their abode with me, and as long as they can torment me, they will. I
knew last night that there would be a storm, and, sure enough, there was
one; but my old barque rode it out, though many a tighter craft went to
the bottom. My foes, though they love to punish my flesh, will not let
me perish."

"That is but a vain hope, Robin, which will one day deceive you: you
trust too much in your crazy barque, and to a no less crazy imagination;
and, when too late, you will own your self-delusion."

His benefactress could not succeed in arguing him out of his belief, and
had just told him to leave the fish at the back-door, as Margaret made
her appearance before her future mistress.

She started back when she beheld Robin, and again thought that some evil
genius had determined to oppose her wherever she went.

"Ah! is that you, Peggy? It's many a long day since I've seen you. Have
the fiends played you any more tricks?"

Margaret made her curtsy to the lady, but dared not reply to the
salutation of the old fisherman, lest he should betray the secret of her
heart. She was evidently confused.

"You need not be so proud either, young woman, as to forget a friend;
but you are like the rest of the world:--'Those whom we first serve are
the first to forget us.' Now, to my mind, you're a fit match for Will
Laud, and he's about as ungracious a chap as any I know."

The tear started into Margaret's eye, and she could not utter a word. In
the accents of kindness, however, the lady addressed the trembling girl.

"You must not mind all the wanderings of old Robin, you will be better
acquainted with him hereafter."

"And so will you, ma'am, with her before long. The foul fiend has long
dwelt with her and hers, and you'll soon find that out. I've known her
almost as long as I've known you, ma'am; and if she's a-coming to your
service, why, all I can say is, there will be pretty pranks a-going on
in your house."

Here the poor girl could refrain no longer from tears; she sobbed as if
her heart would break, and the scene more than commonly interested the
benevolent lady.

"What has Robin known of you, young woman, that he should speak so
harshly against you? How have you offended him?"

"I never offended him, ma'am--never that I know of! He was very kind to
me, and once, ma'am--once----" and here Margaret paused, and could not
finish her sentence.

Robin now quickly saw he was mistaken, and going close up to the girl,
he said,--

"I ask your pardon, Peggy! I thought you were proud--I see how it is! I
see how it is!--Forgive me! forgive me, ma'am! She's a good girl; aye,
she's a clever girl! I thought she was a bit proud, so the fiend made me
bark at her, that's all;" and, making his bow, he went with his basket
of fish to the back-door.

The lady evidently saw there was a mystery; but, well knowing the sudden
changes of the bewildered mind of the fisherman, although she always
found a shadow of truth about all his ravings, she placed no faith in
any of his prognostications. She did not again question Margaret upon
that subject, but spoke to her about her duties. She found her fully
sensible of what she might have to do, and quite ready to undertake the
place. She agreed to give her, progressively improving wages, and told
her that as Mr. Stebbing had given her a recommendation, she should try
her. Mrs. Cobbold desired her to come on the morrow, and wished her
good-evening.

The next day saw Margaret an inmate of that family where her name will
never be forgotten; where she spent so many days of real, uninterrupted
happiness; where she became respected by her mistress and family, and
was a very great favourite with all her fellow-servants. Margaret came
to her new place with a good character; with youth, health, hope, and a
willing mind for work. By the advice of the doctor's old servant, she
came (by means of John Barry's generous gift) with every article clean,
new, and decent, and had the sum of six pounds left for a nest-egg.




CHAPTER XV

THE NEW PLACE


There is no class of persons in society so much neglected as domestic
servants, none who are placed in more responsible stations, to whom more
confidence is given, and from whom more is expected; yet there are none
who are less instructed, except in the duties of their stations, and
even these they have to learn as they can. The law visits no one with
severer penalties for any dereliction of duty; and the world makes fewer
allowances for their faults than for those of any other class.

The excellent lady in whose service Margaret was placed was one who felt
this truth, and took every opportunity she could to improve the minds of
all who came under her roof. She was one of the most enlightened of her
sex, with a mind cultivated to the highest degree, and acquainted from
her infancy with many of the leading persons of the day, in art,
literature, and science. And she was not less domestic than enlightened.
The writer of these pages knew her well, and loved her dearly. He
admired her with deep and reverential love. He was not able, indeed, to
appreciate the full extent of her benevolent character till years had
snatched her away, and left him "never to look upon her like again."
This he can truly say, that, in the course of twenty years'
acquaintance, he never knew what it was to have a dull moment in her
company. Lest any may think this is saying too much, let some of those
who now occupy public stations of importance, and some of whom were her
domestic servants, say, how much they were indebted to her instructions.
Let some, even of a higher and more independent class, who have since
attained the pinnacle of their professions, tell how much they were
indebted to the first encouraging advice of her, who saw and prized
their talents, and rejoiced in their development. She was a most kind
benefactress to all who needed her advice or assistance, and to none was
she a greater friend, and by none was she more deeply loved, than by the
poor girl whom she took into her service, as a sort of general help in
the humblest station in her family.

At the Cliff there was not a single individual in whom the mistress did
not feel a deep interest. None were beneath her notice; none came near
her whom she did not strive to improve. Though she commanded the hearts
of many highly distinguished persons in the drawing-room, she commanded
the affections of her family, and of every servant under her roof. Poor
Margaret appeared to her an object of peculiar interest. Ignorant as she
found her in letters, and in many things relating to her situation,
there was in her a capacity, which this lady discovered, to require
nothing but instruction to perfect it. Readily did she comprehend when
the kindness of her mistress was shown in condescending to teach her,
and rapid was the progress she made in everything explained to her.

Margaret had a difficult situation to fulfil even in the household
arrangements of this excellent lady; for she was under-nursemaid in the
morning, and under-cook in the evening; two very different stations, but
both of which she discharged with fidelity, and at length rose in that
family to fill the head place in both stations at different periods.

Her mistress had married a gentleman who had fourteen children living at
the time, and she had every prospect of seeing the number increase. It
required a woman of energy to direct the household affairs of such a
numerous family, as well as a woman of method and management in the
nursery. Well did Margaret second the work which the head nurse had in
hand. No one could be more indefatigable in her duties--none more
constantly employed.

It was Margaret's especial province to walk out with the children, to
carry the young ones, and to lead now and then an elder one. A retired
and pleasant walk it was at the back of the Cliff to Sawyer's Farm,
either along the river's side to the Grove, or Hog Island, or through
the farmyard, up the sandy hill, from the top of which Ipswich and its
environs were so conspicuous. In all the innocent enjoyments of
children, Margaret took particular delight. She would make chains of
dandelions, whistles of cats' tails; collect lords and ladies, string
ladies' hair; make whips of rushes for the boys, and cradles for dolls
for the girls. Her eyes were ever watchful, her hands ever useful. The
children loved her, and bounded to her with pleasure, whenever the order
was given for a walk. She was equally dauntless in their defence,
whether it was against a dog, or the geese, or the cattle of the field,
or the gipsy, or the drunken sailor.

During this service, an occurrence took place of a singularly
providential nature, which showed the sagacity of this poor girl, and
her presence of mind in so striking a light, that it is well worthy to
be here recorded. The children were all going for a walk, and Master
George and Master Frederic were listening at a rat's hole, under the
foundation of a building, where the workmen were making some
alterations, and had taken away a great deal of the soil, upon one side
of the brickwork. As Margaret came up with some half-dozen of the young
fry, the boys exultingly called to her to come and hear the old rat
gnawing something in the hole.

Margaret approached, and with that natural quickness of perception with
which she was so gifted, saw danger in the situation of the children.
Listening one moment at the hole she was convinced that the creaking
sound she heard did not proceed from a rat. In another instant she
seized the children by their arms, and exclaimed, with a terror that
communicated itself to them all, "Come away! come away! that wall is
settling!" Scarcely had she ran with the children half a dozen yards
from the spot, when down came the wall in a mass of ruin that must have
buried them all beneath it but for the providential sagacity of this
young girl. To this day the circumstance is remembered by the parties
interested in it, and is looked upon as the interposition of their good
angel, in making use of this humble instrument for the preservation of
their lives.

Margaret, by this time, could both read and write; for the lady, who
superintended the whole management of the nursery, had her regular
school-hours in the morning devoted to the minutiae of progressive
improvement. It was at one of these morning lessons that she discovered
Margaret's abilities. Hearing the children their lessons in history, and
examining them in the chronology of the kings of England, she was
surprised to hear Margaret prompting Miss Sophia, in a whisper, when the
child was at a loss for the right date. And when she came to question
Margaret, she found that this poor girl had been, though unknown to her,
her most attentive scholar. This induced her to take pains with her, and
to let her be a participator in all the most useful branches of a
nursery education. She was taught to read and write, and understand the
Bible history and the Gospel scheme of redemption; in all which studies
she became as well informed as any of the children. Soon after this, she
rose to be the head nursemaid.

As the winter came on, the walks became more circumscribed; and though
she occasionally saw the old fisherman, with his basket of soles and
plaice, yet from him she could gather no tidings of her lover, good or
bad. To hear nothing may be better than to hear bad tidings; but some
may even think that bad news is better than none at all. The certain
knowledge of any catastrophe, if it has taken place, at ever so great a
distance, is always more satisfactory and consoling than years of
agonizing suspense.

Perhaps some such ideas might have passed in Margaret's mind; but she
had been so accustomed to hear nothing that was good of her lover, that
she began to construe the long interregnum of his non-appearance into
the hope of some permanent amendment.

The Orwell, at the period of our narrative, and during the winter
season, was famous for its wild-fowl. At some particular times, when the
decoy-ponds around were frozen over, the birds used to come into the
channel of the river in prodigious flights, covering hundreds of acres
of water with their varieties of plumage. Millions of black coot used to
darken the waves, whilst the duck and the mallard, the diver, the
pin-tail, the bar-goose, and even the wild swan, used to be seen in such
numbers, as in the present day would seem to be incredible. Those,
however, who can remember this river only fifty years ago will fully
corroborate this account. Some live at Ipswich, at this day, who can
well remember the time in which they have made dreadful havoc among the
feathered tribes of the river. Now and then a solitary flight may here
and there be seen visiting the river in the evening, and departing with
the dawn. Since the port of Ipswich has so rapidly increased its
shipping, the traffic of winter, as well as summer, has been so
constant, that the birds have sought some quieter feeding-ground than
the ooze of the Orwell.

It was at the time when these birds were most frequent, that the young
fowlers of the port used to have extraordinary tales to tell of the
numbers they had killed, and the escapes and adventures they had met
with in the pursuit. One of Mr. Cobbold's younger sons had a great
_penchant_ for this sport, and, though quite a lad, would venture upon
the most hardy enterprises with the weather-beaten sailors, who had been
long accustomed to the river. He was a good shot, too, for a boy, and
would bring home many a duck and mallard as the fruits of his own
excursions.

It was about four o'clock, one winter evening, when this young gentleman
was seen descending the steps of the Cliff, with the oars over his
shoulder, and his gun in his hand. He looked at the cloudy sky, and
thought he should have good sport upon the river before the morning. His
sisters, Harriet and Sophia, saw him stealing down the Cliff, and he
requested of them not to take any notice of his absence. He unlocked his
boat, and shoved off into the channel alone, rejoicing in the thought of
the _spolia opima_ he should expose next morning at the breakfast-table.

At tea-time, all the numerous party seated themselves round the table,
before piles of hot toast and bread and butter; and the venerated father
came from his own private room to take his seat with his affectionate
wife and children. He cast his eye upon the party, and looked round the
room, evidently missing one of his children. "Where's William?" he
inquired. The sisters, Harriet and Sophia, began to titter. "Where's
William?" again asked the anxious parent; and the lady, who had been
reading some new book, which had absorbed her attention, had not until
then missed the boy.

Mr. Parkinson, the confidential clerk, a distant relative, replied,
"Master William has gone out in his boat to shoot wild-fowl."

"What! on such a night as this? How long since?"

"Two hours or more, sir."

The worthy parent rose from his seat, summoned the clerk to follow him
immediately, and, with a fearful expression of countenance, which
communicated terror to the whole party, he said, "Depend upon it, the
child is lost!"

It was a night on which no reasonable man would have suffered even the
stoutest and strongest sailor to go down the river for such a purpose.
The tide was running out fast, and the ice was floating down in great
masses, enough to stave a stout boat. A piercing sleet, the forerunner
of a snow-storm, drifted along with the wind. Altogether it was as
dismal as darkness and the foreboding anxiety of a fond parent's heart
could make it. Yet Master William, a mere stripling, was upon the
waters, in a boat which required at least two stout men to manage her,
and at the mercy of the storm. Had not his father by mere chance missed
him, and made inquiries about him, he would not have been heard of till
the next morning, and then they would have spoken of his death. As it
was, the sequel will show how nearly that event came to pass.

The brewhouse men were summoned, two stout fellows, who were put into
the small boat, and it then came out that Master William had taken the
oars belonging to the little boat, to manage a great, heavy craft that
was large enough to hold a dozen men.

Mr. Cobbold and his clerk went along the shore, whilst the two men in
the skiff, with great oars, shoved along the edge of the channel.
Occasionally the parties communicated by voice, when the lull of the
waves and winds permitted them to do so; but no tidings of the lost boy
could be obtained.

What agony did that truly good father endure, yet how mild was his
censure of those who ought to have prevented such a lad incurring such
danger!

In the midst of these anxieties, there was one who shared them with as
much earnestness as if she had been the mother of the child; and this
was Margaret Catchpole. No weather, no winds, no commands of her
master's, could overrule that determined activity of mind which this
girl possessed, to lend a helping hand in time of danger. She had thrown
her cloak over her head, and followed her master with the hope that she
might be of some service.

The party on the shore could no longer hear even the voices of those
who were in the boat, as the channel took them round the bed of ooze to
the opposite shore. Still did they pursue their course, calling aloud,
and stopping to listen for some faint sound in reply. Nothing answered
their anxious call but the cold moaning of the wintry wind. They
stretched their eyes in vain; they could see nothing: and they had
walked miles along the shore, passing by the Grove, Hog Island, and the
Long Reach, until they came to Downham Reach. No soul had they met, nor
had any sound, save the whistling of the curlew and the winds, greeted
their ears. The anxious father, down whose cheeks tears began to steal
and to stiffen with the frost, gave his dear son up for lost. He had
lived so long by the river, and knew so well its dangers, that it seemed
to him an impossibility he should be saved; and he turned round just by
the opening to the Priory Farm, and said to his clerk, "We must give it
up;" when Margaret said, "Oh, no, sir, not yet; pray do not give it up
yet! Let us go on farther! Do not go home yet."

Thus urged, her master turned again to pursue the search, and she
followed in his path.

About a hundred yards onwards, under the shade of the wood, they met a
man.

"Who goes there?" was the question of the anxious father.

"What's that to you?" was the rough uncourteous reply, strangely grating
to the father's heart at such a moment.

In those rough sounds Margaret recognized Will Laud's voice. She sprang
forward, exclaiming, to the no small astonishment of her master, "Oh,
William! Mr. Cobbold has lost his son! Do lend a hand to find him."

It is needless to dwell upon the mutual surprise of both parties at such
a rencontre. Laud was equally astonished at Margaret's presence at such
a time, and Margaret herself felt an indescribable hope that her lover
might render some effectual service.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Laud, "but I did not know you."

"My son went down the river in a boat some three or four hours since,
and I fear he is lost," said Mr. Cobbold.

"I came up the river as far as I could, and have seen no boat. The
floats of ice were so troublesome, that I resolved to come ashore, and
walk to Ipswich. Had there been a boat between Harwich and the Nacton
shore, I must have seen it. I landed close by Cowhall, and I know there
was no boat on the river, at least so far."

At that moment they thought they heard some one call. They listened, and
plainly heard the men hallooing from the boat.

"Ahoy! Ahoy!" called out Will Laud.

They then listened again, and recognized the voice of Richard Lee, one
of the brewing-men, who called out,--

"We have found the boat, but no one in her."

"Aye, sir," said Will Laud, "then the young gentleman has got ashore!"

"I fear not!" said the father; "I fear he is lost!"

Laud feared the same, when he heard that the young lad had taken no
mud-splashers with him: "But," he added, "if the youth knew the river,
he would get out of his boat, and walk by the edge of the channel till
he came to this hardware, and then he might get ashore."

"What is that dark spot yonder, by the edge of the water?" said
Margaret, as she stooped down to let her eye glance along the dark level
line of the mud.

"It is only one of the buoys," said the father, "such as they moor ships
to in the reach."

"There is no buoy in that part of the river," said Will. "Margaret sees
something, and so do I now. I don't know what it is, but I soon will
though."

And without more ado, he stepped on to the mud and was soon upon
all-fours, creeping along, and dragging his body over the softest
places of the ooze, where he must have sunk into the mud up to his
waist, if he had kept an erect posture. As he advanced, he evidently saw
something lying close to the water's edge, and, after great toil, he
came up to it. True enough he found it to be the stiff body of the poor
youth they had been in search of. Lifting himself up, he called aloud,
"Ahoy! ahoy! Margaret, you are right;" words of such joy as were never
forgotten in after years by any of that party.

Laud lost no time in hoisting the poor boy on his back, and, tying his
stiff hands round his own neck with his handkerchief, he crept upon the
mud again toward that shore where stood those anxious friends awaiting
his approach. The boy was, to all appearance, stiff and lifeless. The
hair of his head was one matted mass of ice and mud; his limbs were
stiff and frozen; one leg seemed like a log of hard wood, the other they
could bend a little. He had been up to his neck in the mud, and had
evidently been overcome with the exertion of extricating himself. His
clothes were drawn off his back, and had been used as mud-splashers,
until exhausted nature could make no further effort, and he had sunk,
unconscious, upon the ooze. Death seemed to have done his work.

The only plan now was to get him home as soon as they could. Laud soon
constructed a carriage for him, of a hurdle, upon which he laid his own
jacket, the father's great-coat, and over him he threw Margaret's cloak.
Each of the four persons taking a corner of the hurdle upon their
shoulders, they made their way, as fast as possible, along the shore. In
this way they proceeded at a good round pace, until they reached the
Grove-side, where they met the other servants, coming in company with
the two brewhouse-men, with blankets and brandy, in case Master William
should be found. Their arrival was very opportune, as it enabled the
exhausted party to transfer their burden to the new comers. Mr. Cobbold
expressed his gratitude to Laud, and asked him to come on to the Cliff,
and rest himself that night, and he would endeavour to repay him in the
morning.

"I thank you, sir," said Laud; "I was coming to see Margaret, and if you
would only grant me a word or two with her, it is all the favour I ask."

"As many as you please, my man; but it would be better for her and you,
too, to be at the kitchen fire such a night as this, than to be talking
upon the banks of the Orwell."

Laud seemed to hesitate; at last he said, "Well, sir, I will come."

Soon afterwards the thoughtful Margaret said to Mr. Cobbold, "Had I not
better run forward, sir, and prepare the slipper-bath, and get the fire
lit in the bed-room, and have warm blankets ready, and send off for Dr.
Stebbing?"

"Right, Margaret, right!" was her master's reply; "run, my girl, run! It
will be good for you, too. We shall soon follow you."

On went the damsel, and soon passed the men carrying their young master,
and was the first who brought the joyful tidings that Master William was
found. In all her plans, however, she was anticipated by her
ever-thoughtful mistress. The amber room was prepared, as being the
quietest in the house. The bath, the hot water, the salt to rub his
benumbed limbs, were all ready; for it was concluded, that if he was
found, he would be in such a state of paralysation, from the effects of
the weather, as would make it a work of time to recover him. The boy was
sent off immediately for Mr. Stebbing. The whole family were in a state
of hushed and whispering anxiety. The two sisters, especially, who had
seen their brother depart, and had not spoken a word about it, were
deeply bewailing their own faults. In short, all was anxiety, all was
expectation, almost breathless suspense. Margaret's description to her
mistress was clear, simple, and concise. Her meeting with a sailor, whom
she knew when she lived at Priory Farm, and his acquaintance with all
the buoys on the river, all seemed natural and providential. She gave
orders immediately for a bed to be prepared in the coachman's room for
the sailor, to whose exertions they were so indebted for the restoration
of the child, dead or alive, to his affectionate parents.

Voices were soon heard coming up the road from the shrubbery, and the
first who entered the house was the father, supporting the head, whilst
the others raised the body of the poor boy. Every exertion was now used,
but for some time no symptoms of life could be observed in him. The
doctor arrived, and he perfectly approved of the steps which had been
taken. He opened a vein, from which the smallest drop of blood exuded.
This he counted a good symptom. He then ordered a bath, at first merely
tepid, and by degrees made warmer. The blood began to flow a little
faster from the arm, and the doctor felt increased hope that the vital
functions were not extinct. With joy he noticed the beginning of a
gentle pulsation of the heart, and a few minutes afterwards of the
wrist, and pointed out these favourable symptoms to the anxious parents.
A little brandy was now forced into the throat. The lips, which had
hitherto been livid as death, began to show a slight change. At length,
in the midst of anxious exertions, the chest began to heave, and the
lungs to obtain a little play; a sort of bubbling sound became audible
from the throat; and, shortly afterwards, a moan, and then the eyelids
half unclosed, though with no consciousness of sight. Convulsive
shudders began to creep over the frame--an indication that a warmer bath
would be judicious. This was soon effected. As the warmth circulated
through the veins, the hands began to move, the eyes to open wider, and
to wander wildly over the space between them. At length they seemed to
rest upon the face of Margaret, who stood at the foot of the bath, and
down whose cheeks tears of hope literally chased each other. A faint
smile was seen to play upon his lips, which told that recognition was
returning. He was then removed from the warm bath to his warm bed.

An hour afterwards, and their unwearied exertions were rewarded with
hearing Master William pronounce the name of "Margaret." Though so weak
that he could not lift his hand, yet his tongue whispered her name, as
if he felt she had been his preserver.

He shortly afterwards interchanged smiles with the doctor and his
sisters, and presently afterwards, with his father's hand clasped in
his, he fell asleep.




CHAPTER XVI

BRIGHT HOPES


It is not surprising that Laud, as he stood by the kitchen-fire, and
scraped off the mud, a mixture of clay, weeds, and samphire, which were
clotted upon his coarse trousers, should be considered by the tenants of
that part of the house as a person worthy of all admiration. He had
signalized himself in more than one pair of eyes. The master of the
family and the head clerk had beheld his prowess, and had spoken most
highly of him. They had given orders that whatever he required should be
furnished for him. No wonder, then, that in Tom's, John's, or Sally's
eyes, he should shine with such increased lustre. In Margaret's he was
beheld with those feelings of love, and hope, and joy, which anticipated
rapid improvement after long drawbacks, and she saw the object of her
attachment at the most happy and propitious moment of her existence. The
joy of that evening was unalloyed. Master William was recovering. The
grateful father made Will and all his servants enjoy a hearty supper
together, before they retired to rest, and took care the social glass
was not wanting to make them as comfortable as possible.

The whole establishment sat around the well-spread table before a
cheerfully blazing fire, and were descanting upon the dangers of the
night and the perils which Mr. William must have encountered. At this
moment the doctor entered.

His curiosity had been excited by the account he had heard of Will Laud.
He easily distinguished that dark swarthy being, with his blue jacket,
changed, by the drying of the mud upon it, to a kind of dun or
fawn-colour. His black hair hung down over his shaggy brow with his long
man-of-war pigtail; and his whiskers, scarcely distinguishable from his
black beard, fulfilled the idea of the weather-beaten sailor which the
doctor had previously entertained. He was fully satisfied in his own
mind with what he saw. He came, he said, to report to Laud the state of
his patient; and after asking him a few questions, and making some
remarks upon his bravery, he wished them all a good-night, and returned
to the parlour, to encounter the entertaining queries of the intelligent
family at the Cliff.

His report brought them another visitor. The door again opened, and
their mistress stood before her servants. They all rose as she entered,
and Laud above the rest; but whether from the strangeness of his
situation, or from the belief that the lady was about to speak to him,
the moment that his eye met that intellectual and penetrating glance of
inquiry, it became fixed upon the ground. The voice of thanks reached
him, as well as the words of praise. If they did not gratify _him_, they
did at least the heart of the poor girl who stood close by him. She
looked in her mistress's face, and in her heart blessed her for her
kindness.

"Can we be of any service to you, young man?" said the lady. "We are
anxious to prove ourselves grateful to you: and in any way that you may
claim our future service, you will find us ready to repay you. As an
immediate help, Mr. Cobbold sends you this guinea, an earnest of some
future recompense."

"Thank you, ma'am! Let Margaret have the guinea, and the thanks too; for
she first discovered the young gentleman."

This was spoken by Laud without looking at the lady, or once lifting up
his eyes. Was it timidity, or was it shame? Perhaps Laud had never been
interrogated in the presence of a lady before that time.

He was truly relieved, when Mrs. Cobbold, hoping, as she said, that he
had been well taken care of, and again thanking him for his assistance,
wished him a good night's rest, and took her departure.

The opinion of the parlour was not so favourable to Laud as that of the
kitchen, as the character of the bold smuggler was estimated very
differently in each place. Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold, however, were not aware
that Laud was in the British navy, having been seized in his boat by a
pressgang, and been bound to serve his majesty three years on board the
_Briton_ man-of-war, then cruising off the coast of Holland.

Such was the want of British seamen just at this period of the
breaking-out of the long war, that many smugglers received not only
their pardon, but good pay for joining the navy; and even those taken by
the pressgang were only punished, if it may be termed so, by a
three-years' well-paid service. Laud had been thus taken, and had been
so well received on board, that his captain, on the night in question,
had granted him permission to come up to Ipswich. He had offered him a
crew, but Laud said he knew the river, and would rather go alone, if the
captain would only lend him one of the small boats and a pair of oars.
He had promised to be on board again the next day. The request was
granted; for the captain was pleased with Laud's confession of his
object in undertaking to go alone--so, in spite of wind and weather, ice
and snow, he had rowed himself up the river Orwell as far as Nacton
Creek.

These facts Will had already communicated to Margaret, who, rejoicing in
his present honourable position, overlooked the dangers of a
three-years' service in defence of his country. She felt more proud of
his presence that night at the Cliff than she had ever before done since
the day of his first entrance into her father's cottage. She did not
indeed experience that thrilling warmth of devotion which she once felt
when he visited her on the shores of Downham Reach; but love, through
all its shocks, was much more firm and really hopeful than even at that
enthusiastic period.

Though Margaret became acquainted with the fact of Laud's admission into
the British navy, and he spoke openly in the kitchen of his ship and her
commander, yet these things were unknown in the parlour, where, as has
just been stated, his personal appearance and character stood at a heavy
discount. In the kitchen he was a hero, in the parlour a desperado.

The doctor found Master William in a sound and apparently refreshing
sleep; and retired to a couch prepared for himself in an adjoining room,
in case his services might be required in the night. The servants soon
after parted for their respective dormitories, and Laud took leave of
Margaret for the night.

It is scarcely possible to believe that Margaret, after all her fatigues
and anxieties, should have refused to retire to her room. She actually
begged permission to sit up all night with Master William. Vain were all
attempts at persuasion. She said she knew that if she went to bed she
could not sleep, and as she begged so hard to be permitted to sit up,
the request was granted.

Hope is a sweet comforter to an anxious heart, and presented a vision of
future bliss to the wakeful spirit of the maid, which afforded her
occupation for the night, presenting to her the prospect of days to
come, when Laud should obtain an honourable discharge from his country's
service, where he was now numbered among the bold, the brave, and the
free, and in which the same Providence which had preserved him to
perform the good act of that night would, she hoped, still preserve him
for many more good deeds. In pleasant reflections the night passed away;
nor was there one in that family who did not join in the general
thanksgiving to God for the signal preservation of the youth, who was
wrapped in a profound and refreshing sleep, watched by the
ever-constant and faithful Margaret. The tempest of the night had swept
along, and was succeeded by a calm and glorious sun-rising, which shone
upon the glittering fields of snow. The fir-trees were weighed down with
the weight of the ice and snow lodged upon their branches, whilst the
beams of the sun made the drops of pendent icicles fall with a smart
sound to the earth. The sailor came down from his bedroom refreshed
after a sound sleep; and, after he had partaken of a hearty breakfast,
he shook hands with all the servants, and took a more tender leave of
Margaret: leaving his best wishes for the young gentleman, he returned
to his boat some miles down the river, and thence to his ship.

He was gone before the Cliff party assembled at the breakfast-table, but
he took with him the best prayers of all, and most especially those of
the girl of his heart, for his future safety and prosperity.

Master William gradually recovered, and took warning from this narrow
escape not to venture any more upon such dangerous excursions. Though
fond of boating, he lost the zest for wild-fowl shooting, and left it
for others to pursue who had not purchased experience at so dear a
price.




CHAPTER XVII

ALTERCATION AND EXPLANATION


It was not long after these occurrences that Mr. Cobbold and his family
removed from the Cliff to a house in the town, a large family mansion,
formerly the property of C. Norton, Esq., on St. Margaret's Green, which
he had purchased, and thither he and his family would have earlier
removed but for some repairs which were not completed until that time.
It was a fine old mansion, fronting the town, with its entrance porch,
and lofty windows, with numerous attics; whilst its drawing, dining, and
breakfast rooms, faced the beautiful green fields which then skirted
the town towards the hills upon the Woodbridge Road.

Mrs. Cobbold took the first favourable opportunity of questioning
Margaret respecting her attachment to Will Laud, of whose character she
spoke freely. Margaret spoke warmly in his defence, while she
acknowledged the truth of much that had been advanced against him, and
as warmly expressed her conviction he would reform. Sincerely did the
lady hope that all her poor servant's favourable anticipations might be
confirmed.

Upon Margaret's spirits, however, this conversation, which was broken
off suddenly by the entrance of one of the servants, produced a
depression which greatly affected and afflicted her. Her mistress did
not appear in her eyes either so amiable, or so kind, or so just, or so
considerate, as she had always previously done. She began to suspect
that she was prejudiced even against her on Laud's account. She fancied
herself not so much beloved by her as she used to be, and that she did
not estimate her services as highly as, by her manner, she used formerly
to show that she did. Words which Margaret would never have thought
anything about at other times, when now spoken by her mistress, seemed
to import something unpleasant, as if her attachment was the reason of
their being uttered. She was never admonished now but she thought it was
because of her unfortunate acquaintance with Laud. Mrs. Cobbold did not
revert, in the least degree, to the past matter of confidential
conversation. Indeed, after her most devout aspirations had been made
for her servant's future comfort, she did not think about the matter.
But in Margaret's eyes every little thing said or done seemed to have a
peculiar meaning, which her own warped mind attached to it. In fact, she
became an altered person--suspicious, distrustful, capricious, and, in
many things, far less careful than she ought to have been. And all this
arose from that well-intentioned conversation, voluntarily begun on the
part of her mistress, but which had created such a serious
disappointment in Margaret's mind.

A circumstance arose about the time of the removal of the family, which,
though simple in itself, tended very greatly to inflame that disquietude
in Margaret's breast, which only wanted to be stirred up to burn most
fiercely.

Many of the things had been removed to St. Margaret's Green. Part of the
family had already left the Cliff, and were domesticated in the mansion.
Several of the children, especially all the younger ones, had become
familiarized with their far more extensive nursery: Margaret was with
them. The footman had been sent, together with the gardener, as
safeguards to the house; and even the old coachman, though frequently
engaged driving backwards and forwards from one house to the other,
considered himself, horses and all, as settled at the town-house.

The Cliff began to be deserted, and in another day the master and
mistress would leave the house to those only who were to live in it.
Mrs. Cobbold and one or two of the elder boys were still at the Cliff.
The faithful old dog, Pompey, still kept his kennel, which stood at the
entrance of the stable-yard. Mr. Cobbold had been superintending the
unpacking of some valuable goods until a late hour, and his lady, at the
Cliff, was anxiously awaiting his return. It was a clear frosty night,
and the snow was upon the ground; but the gravel path had been well
swept down to the shrubbery gate. Pompey had been furiously barking for
some time, and had disturbed Mrs. Cobbold, who was engaged with her
book--some new publication of that eventful time. The two elder boys sat
by the fire. She said to them--

"I wish, boys, you would go and see what Pompey is barking at."

"Oh! it is nothing, I dare say, but some sailors on the shore."

The young men, for so they might be called, had taken off their boots or
shoes, and had put on their slippers, and very naturally were little
disposed to put them on again, and to move from a nice, comfortable
fire, into the cold air of a frosty night.

Mrs. Cobbold finding, however, that she could not get on with her book
for the increasing rage of the dog, determined to go out herself. She
was a person of no mean courage, and not easily daunted. She thought,
moreover, that if she moved, her sons would leave their backgammon-board
and follow her, and, if not, that she might probably meet her husband.
She put on her thick cloak, threw a shawl over her head, and sallied
forth. As the door opened, Pompey ceased his loud bark, but every now
and then gave a low growl, and a short, suppressed bark, as if he was
not quite satisfied. Mrs. Cobbold walked down the gravel path toward the
gate, and, as she proceeded, she saw a man go across the path and enter
the laurel shrubbery directly before her. She went back immediately to
the parlour, and told the two young men what she had seen; but, whether
it was that they were too deeply engaged with their game, or that they
were really afraid, they treated the matter very lightly, simply saying,
that it was some sweetheart of the cottagers, or that she must have
fancied she saw some one. At all events, they declined to go out, and
advised her not to think anything more about it.

This neither satisfied the lady nor old Pompey, who began again to give
tongue most furiously. Finding that she was unable to make them stir,
the lady determined to investigate the matter herself; and, telling the
young men her intention, she again went out, and advanced to the very
spot where she had seen the man enter the shrubbery. The traces on the
snow convinced her the man was in the shrubbery. In a firm and decided
voice, she cried out--

"Come out of that bush--come out, I say! I know you are there; I saw you
enter; and if you do not immediately come out, I will order the dog to
be let out upon you! Come out! You had better come out this moment."

The bushes began to move, the snow to fall from the leaves, and out
rolled a heavy-looking man, dressed as a sailor, and apparently drunk;
he looked up at the lady with a villainous scowl, and staggered a step
towards her.

"What do you do here? Who are you?" she said, without moving.

"My name's John Luff. I--(hiccup)--I--I do no harm!"

At the sound of his voice, Pompey became so furious that he actually
dragged his great kennel from its fixture, and as his chain would not
break, it came lumbering along over the stones towards the spot.

As the fellow heard this, he began to stagger off, but at every step
turned round to see if the lady followed him.

This she did, keeping at the same distance from him, and saying, "Be off
with you! be off!" She then saw him go out at the gate, and turn round
the wall, to the shore.

Farther than her own gate she did not think it prudent to go; but when
she got so far, she was rejoiced to see her husband at a distance
returning upon the marsh wall to the Cliff.

Old Pompey had by this time come up to the gate with his kennel behind
him, and evidently impatient to be let loose.

She was engaged in the attempt to unloose the dog as her astonished
husband came up to the gate; he soon learned the cause of this
appearance, and immediately undid Pompey's collar; the animal sprang
over the gate, and ran along the shore till he came to the cut where
boats occasionally landed, and was closely followed by his master, who
plainly saw a man pulling into the channel in a manner which convinced
him he was no inexperienced hand at the oar.

In the meantime an exaggerated report reached St. Margaret's Green, that
a sailor had been seen lurking about the premises at the Cliff, and that
he had attacked their mistress.

Of course, the tale lost nothing but truth by the telling; and it was
affirmed in the kitchen that it was Will Laud himself.

Some told Margaret the fact; she felt greatly annoyed, and was much
surprised that when Mrs. Cobbold came to the house the next day, she did
not speak to her upon the subject. She resolved that if her mistress did
not soon speak to her, she would broach the subject herself; but Mrs.
Cobbold put this question to her the next day:--

"Margaret, do you know a man of the name of John Luff?"

"Yes, madam," she replied; "I do know such a man, and I most heartily
wish I had never known him."

"I wish the same, Margaret," said her mistress, and then related her
recent adventure.

"He is the man," said Margaret, "who perverted all Will's naturally good
talents, and induced him to join his nefarious traffickers. He is a
desperate villain, and would murder any one! Did he threaten you with
any violence? I am glad, indeed, that you escaped unhurt from the fangs
of such a monster."

"He did me no injury," answered the lady.

Another long conversation then followed between Mrs. Cobbold and
Margaret, in which the latter complained bitterly of the change she
fancied had taken place in her mistress's behaviour towards her. The
lady denied such change had taken place, and endeavoured to convince her
servant that the alteration was in her own disposition.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE RECONCILIATION


Whether it was that Margaret's fame had reached the village of
Brandiston, or that Mrs. Leader repented most bitterly the loss of her
assistance, or that her rents of the land and cottages began to be in
arrear and to fall off, and she herself found that poverty crept in upon
her, certain it was that something sufficiently powerful in its nature
prompted her to speak kindly to Margaret, whom she accidentally met that
very day as she was going across the Green towards Christ Church Park.
She had arrived at Ipswich with her husband, and was passing over the
Green just as Margaret with the children, all wrapped up in cloaks and
muffs, were going to see the skaters on the Round Pond in the Park.

The meeting was much more cordial than could have been expected; but
Mrs. Leader was a changed woman. After the interchange of mutual
civilities, Margaret said that she should be home by four o'clock, and
if her uncle and aunt would call, she knew that her mistress would have
no objection to their coming into the house. Mrs. Leader even shook
hands with her, and promised to pay her a visit.

What a wonderful change! thought Margaret, as she hastened on with the
little ones to overtake two or three of the impatient party, who were
looking behind from the Park-gate.

The Park at Ipswich is a beautiful place in summer: twice a week were
its gates thrown open by the liberal proprietor of the domain to the
inhabitants of the town, who rambled along the shady chestnut walk to
its utmost bound. Many were the happy walks that infancy, delighting in
the sunny flowers of the mead, took in that lovely place; and many the
more tender and animating rambles which fond hearts and faithful lovers
in the days of youth enjoyed. Parents and their children breaking away
from the cares of business, delighted to stroll in holiday attire, and
repose themselves beneath the branches of those stately trees which
everywhere adorned the Park. There they heard the first notes of the
cuckoo; there they watched the green and spotted woodpecker; observed
the busy rooks; heard the nightingales, the thrushes, and the doves, and
spoke of all the innocent pleasures of nature.

The spotted fallow deer crossed their path in a long line of rapid
flight, and assembled in a herd in the valley; the pheasant and the
partridge roamed about in pride and beauty; whilst the hare and the
rabbit, familiarized to the sound of children's voices, lifted up their
long ears, or stood up upon their hind legs to gaze upon them as they
passed.

In the winter, the stragglers in the Park were comparatively few,
excepting at that period when the pond was frozen over, and became the
fashionable resort for company to view the skaters; thither the young
party whom Margaret had the care of resorted, to see the dexterous
movements of Counsellor Green, or some of his majesty's officers from
the barracks. The company that day was numerous, and the scene such as
would delight thousands, even were it in the gay metropolis; it would
have induced many of the fashionables to leave the warm, soft cushions
by the fireside, and to wrap themselves in furs, and to put on their
snow-shoes, and to enjoy the healthy, though frosty, air of Christmas.

Many in the busy town of Ipswich left their labours and their cares for
a few hours' recreation; fair ladies ventured to lean upon a brother's
or a lover's arm and try the slippery ice; sledges, too, were in
requisition.

Though the skating was good, and all the young people enjoyed it,
Margaret's thoughts were upon her uncle and aunt, and she was the first
to remind her young people that the old Christ Church clock had struck
four.

Home they went, gratified and satisfied, talking of the frightful cracks
and heavy falls, and well-contested races, which they had mightily
enjoyed; when they came into the house they gave a lively account of all
they had seen.

With Mrs. Cobbold's permission, Mr. and Mrs. Leader were invited to take
tea in the housekeeper's room, and Margaret was allowed to have a long
talk with them.

She found her uncle much more chatty than her aunt, for sorrow and
coming poverty had cast their shadows before Mrs. Leader, and
wonderfully softened the asperity of her former purse-proud disposition;
she let her husband speak of all the family troubles, and did not once
interrupt him. Margaret soon learned that all their property was
mortgaged, and for its full value. She learned that the children were
barefoot, and neglected; that it would require steady management indeed
ever to bring them again into a prosperous or a comfortable state; she
felt for them all, and not only felt, but did all she could to
ameliorate their condition. She offered advice, which was taken in good
part by the now crestfallen aunt.

A strange effect had that comfortable reception in the housekeeper's
room upon the nerves and manners of Mrs. Leader, she looked up to
Margaret as if she was a person of considerable consequence in that
family; she asked Margaret if she might also see the children; nothing
could have given Margaret greater pleasure.

All in the nursery were delighted to see a visitor; and Mrs. Leader very
soon discovered that where management, cleanliness, and strict attention
are paid there will grow up order, regularity, and comfort; she stayed
some minutes with the happy family. As she returned to the housekeeper's
room, she sighed when she said to Margaret--

"I now wish I had never provoked you to leave us! I did not like to own
it, but, very soon after you were gone, I felt your loss; I hope you
will be able to come and see us in the summer, and should you ever be
tired of service, and wish for a home, you will find us very altered in
our manner to you, and more grateful for your services."

Margaret could forgive all that her aunt had ever said or done to her;
she felt so happy in having been reconciled to her, that she could not
refrain from telling her so. She gave a portion of her wages for the
schooling of the children, and thanked her uncle and aunt for their kind
invitation. She even hinted that the time might come when her hopes of
settling in Brandiston might be realized, should Laud obtain his
discharge; in short, she promised to see them in summer, as she had no
doubt that she could obtain leave from her kind mistress.

The day was gone, and the moon was high, and the sky was clear, and the
happy Margaret would have had them stay all night. She had received a
message to the effect that the pony might be put in the stable, and that
her uncle and aunt might sleep in the house; they prudently declined,
lest a deep snow might fall and prevent their reaching home; so off they
went, happier than they had been any day since their affectionate niece
left them, and this happiness arose from the reconciliation.

It was a lucky thing for Mr. and Mrs. Leader that they went home as they
did that very night, for not long after their arrival home began that
severe winter and deep snow which formed one of the most remarkable
features in the history of the climate of England.

It would be foreign to the present narrative to dwell upon the events of
that particular season, further than to refer to the great exertions
made by persons of all ranks and conditions, above actual distress, to
support the famishing poor. Houses were established in different parts
of the town of Ipswich for the public distribution of soup, coals, and
blankets, and various families agreed to furnish supplies for the
various days of the week.

Margaret was now as busy in the kitchen as she had been in the nursery,
for at this time the cook of the family returned home ill, and no one
else could be found so apt as Margaret to supply her place.

It was at this memorable season that her aptitude for this situation was
discovered, which led to such a change in her condition, as future pages
will record. A servant was soon found for the nursery, who supplied her
place, and she became the active cook of the family. In such a large
domestic establishment as that of Mr. Cobbold, the cook was a person of
the utmost consequence; and although there was a regular housekeeper who
acted as an intervening link between the parlour and the kitchen, yet
Mrs. Cobbold was by no means so unacquainted with the proceedings of her
house, as to be found negligent of a due supervision over every
department.

In the new place Margaret had undertaken at the earnest request of her
mistress, her active powers of benevolence were now called into
existence. The feeling manner in which she represented to her
fellow-servants the destitution of thousands around them, and the great
sin there was in the least waste; the strong necessity now became a duty
in every one to deny themselves some portion of their daily bread, that
those who were starving might have a share; made a powerful impression
upon the domestics of that establishment. At this time, though a greater
allowance was made on account of the provisions given away by this
affluent family, yet such was the economy in the kitchen, and the
honest, self-satisfactory privation exercised by the whole house, that
not the least waste was made, and the accustomed expenditure was very
little increased. The poor, however, were bountifully supplied, and
Margaret's name was as justly praised below stairs, as, in past days, it
had been above. Little did she think that her activity, economy, and
management, which a sense of duty and charity had called into action,
would fix her in the kitchen at such an increase of wages, as,
comparatively, seemed to her like coming into a little fortune. She had
now become the head of all the domestics, from having been the servant
of all. She had an increase of toil, but she had a help under her. There
was dinner for the nursery, dinner for the kitchen, dinner for the
parlour, and that which is now almost obsolete, a hot supper for all the
house. But what is work to one who is strong and willing, and ready and
desirous of giving satisfaction?

Time, fully occupied, passes on rapidly, and Margaret was now looked
upon with respect by the whole house. What a pity that that respect
should ever have been blighted, or that any circumstances should have
interfered with that peaceful enjoyment which she seemed at this time to
experience, and which in after years she never forgot! In leaving the
nursery, she left that frequent intercourse with her mistress, and
consequently that continued mental improvement which she had gradually
imbibed. She was not now under her immediate eye; she seldom heard that
sweet voice of approbation, pleasing beyond all expression from such a
mistress.

It was one of those singular coincidences which happened in her eventful
life, that on the celebrated 1st of June, 1794, her lover, William Laud,
distinguished himself in Lord Howe's victory over the French, and was
one of the seamen appointed to bring home a splendid prize to
Portsmouth; and that Margaret herself, on the very same day,
distinguished herself in an aquatic feat, which would have been no
disgrace to a British seaman to have performed, and which exhibited a
degree of courage and presence of mind, truly wonderful in a female.

In the garden belonging to the mansion at St. Margaret's Green was a
very deep pond, with turfed sides, which were sloping and steep, so that
the gardener had to descend to the water by a flight of six steps.
Formerly it had been a handsome square pond, with edges neatly kept, and
surrounded by alpine strawberry-beds. At the period of this tale, one
side opened into the adjoining meadow, and half of that extensive garden
was laid down to grass. To this day, the two stately weeping willows
may be seen dipping their pensile edges into the pond, though time has
lopped off many an arm, and somewhat curtailed them of their beauty. At
that time, when Margaret was cook at St. Margaret's Green, these trees
were the ornaments of the exterior of the town, and to have made a
sketch from the hill, on the Woodbridge Road, without including them,
would have been to have robbed the town of Ipswich of one of its most
prominent and pleasing features of landscape beauty. They were very
lofty, though pendent, and in the month of June, might be justly styled
magnificent. Hundreds of their boughs kissed the water with their thin,
taper points. The girl who had the care of the children had been often
warned not to go near the edge of the road.

On this 1st of June, 1794, Margaret had entered the garden to gather
some herbs, and had scarcely closed the gate before she heard a sudden
shriek of distress. The voices of the children struck upon her, from the
centre of the garden. She ran down the path, and there she saw the whole
group standing and screaming at the edge of the pond, and the nursemaid
completely at her wits' end with fright. Master Henry had been running
away from his sisters, who were pursuing him down the path, and having
turned his head round to look at them, he did not perceive his danger.
His foot caught the edge of the grass border which surrounded the pond,
and he was precipitated head-foremost into the deepest part of it. In a
moment he was seen plunging and screaming for help, but all his efforts
only tended to carry him still further towards the middle of the pond:
he must inevitably have been drowned, had not Margaret at that moment
providentially entered the garden.

Margaret's astonishing presence of mind enabled her to resolve in an
instant what it was best to do, and her heroic courage caused her not to
shrink from doing it; she ordered the nurserymaid to run with all speed
to the stables for a ladder and rope, and then creeping along the
strongest arm of the weeping willow that spread itself over the centre
of the pond, and going as far as she could towards the child, she
grasped a handful of those pendent branches which dipped themselves into
the water, and swinging herself by her right arm, into the pond, and
stretching out her left to the utmost, she seized the child by the
collar of his little jacket, and held him above the water until the
assistance she sent for arrived.

It required both nerve and presence of mind, as well as bodily strength
to support herself in this position only for a few minutes. She
gradually drew the child nearer to her, and though in great danger
herself, her first words to him were, "Don't be afraid, Master Henry; I
have got you! Keep still! keep still! don't struggle!"

The gardener and the coachman had by this time arrived with the ladder
and a rope, they let it down from the arm of the tree, resting the upper
stave just against its branches. The gardener descended a few steps, and
Margaret gave him the child, whilst she herself remained with the boughs
in her hand, until the boy was safe. She then requested them to throw
her the rope, that she might leave go of the willow and be drawn to the
side of the pond. She put the rope round her waist and took hold of it,
doubled, with both hands, and in this way was dragged through the water
to the bank.

Thus was Margaret Catchpole, for the third time, the providential
instrument in preserving the life of a member of Mr. Cobbold's family.
It will not, then, be a matter of surprise, that the records of her life
should have been so strictly preserved among them. If there had been any
former coolness or misunderstanding between her and any of the domestics
of the family, this event completely reconciled all differences. It was
felt by one and all, that a woman who could risk her life to save
another's, in this manner, was worthy of their united respect. She was,
at this time, at the very summit of her reputation. A few days more
brought the news of that celebrated victory over the French fleet,
which added so much to the naval glory of Old England. In that victory
more than one Ipswich man partook, and returned to speak of the
engagement. One poor fellow, in particular, was sent home, desperately
wounded, who, for many years, became an object of respect, as well as
charitable attention, to many families in the town and neighbourhood.
This was poor old Jack, whose friends kept the Salutation public-house,
in Carr Street, who always went by the name of "What Cheer?" When he
first returned to his aunt, the landlady of the house, he had his senses
perfect, and could speak of the engagement with such clearness and
precision as delighted the seamen who frequented the house. He was on
board the same ship as Will Laud, and on the 1st of June they fought
side by side.

Margaret heard of this, and used to go down to the public-house in
question, to hear from Jack all she could of one who was as dear to her
as her own life. He was desired by Laud to tell Margaret that he was
coming home with plenty of prize-money as soon as he could obtain his
discharge. It was this which gave her spirit such joy, and made her so
anxious to hear all she could of the battle; and, of course, of that
part which her lover took in it. Poor Jack's intellects, however, from
the severity of his wounds, and consequent attack of fever, became
irretrievably impaired; and though he recovered his health, and became a
constant visitor at St. Margaret's Green, yet he never could afterwards
give any connected account of the battle.




CHAPTER XIX

THE ALTERATION


We left our heroine, in the last chapter, esteemed of every one who knew
her, and looking forward to what was to her the height of human
felicity--the reformation and return of her sailor-lover. No less true
than strange is the fact, that when we reach the highest pinnacle of
this world's happiness, some giddiness of the head is apt to make us
fall. So, at all events, it proved with the female who gives a title to
this book. It became matter of deep concern to every member of Mr.
Cobbold's family, to behold in her an alteration which no previous
circumstances in her life had prepared them for. There was nothing in
reason, and consistent with their own happiness, that her grateful
master and mistress would not have granted her. Any situation she wished
to attain, either for herself or for her friends, would have commanded
every exertion they could have made in her favour. She stood so high in
their opinion, and in every one's else who knew her, that it scarcely
seemed possible for her to forfeit it. Apparently she had nothing to
complain of; no cause for dissatisfaction; no inducement whatever to
alter her disposition. Yet an alteration did take place, and one which
became evident to every one.

Where the heart is unsettled, things seldom go on well. There wants that
peace and security which can alone make the discharge of our daily
duties a daily pleasure. Margaret's early impressions of religion had
been of a very desultory kind, and here was the root of all the evil
that afterwards befell her. The want of fixed religious principles early
instilled into the young mind has caused many a good disposition to
give way to those changes and chances which happen in life, and to
create an alteration even in the brightest prospects. In the earliest
days of this child of nature, an innate humanity of disposition had been
cultivated and increased by her attendance on a sick and afflicted
sister and an aged mother, both of whom had constantly required her aid.
Her natural qualities were, as the reader has seen, up to this moment of
the noblest cast. Still, in the absence of any strong religious
sentiment, the best dispositions are at the mercy of violent passions,
and are subject to the most dangerous caprices. The reader must have
observed that, in the midst of all her good qualities, Margaret
Catchpole evinced a pertinacity of attachment to the object of her
affections, even in his most unworthy days--an attachment which no
circumstances whatever, not even the warning of her sister's death-bed,
could shake. She had built upon a vague hope of Laud's alteration of
life, and his settlement in some quiet occupation. She had been
accustomed to very great disappointments and vexations; and, with a
spirit above her years, she had borne them all, and had shown an energy
of mind and activity worthy of better things. How weak are all qualities
without the support of religion! At a time when promises seemed most
fair, when an unexpected reconciliation had taken place with her uncle
and aunt Leader, when Laud's return was daily expected, and all the
favours of a generous family were heaped upon her for her good
conduct,--at such a time an alteration of her disposition took place,
which embittered her existence for many years. She became peevish and
irritable, discontented and unhappy, moody and melancholy. She thanked
nobody for assistance, asked nothing of any one, and gave no reason to
any of her fellow-servants for this sudden alteration. Such would not
have been the case, had religion taught her, as it now does many in her
station of life, how to feel supported in prosperity as well as in
adversity. It is a trite saying, that "we seldom know when we are well
off." We are not content to "let well alone;" but too often foolishly
speculate upon the future, and fall into some present snare.

Nothing had been heard of or from Laud, except that a sailor, who had
served with him in the glorious battle of the 1st of June, had visited
the town, and told Margaret that Laud was appointed to come home in one
of the prizes taken by Lord Howe; and that, probably, he was then at
Portsmouth, waiting until he should receive his prize-money and his
discharge. Margaret occasionally stole down in the evening to the
Salutation public-house, where the sailor was staying, to speak with
him, and to hear the naval news. She was here occasionally seen by other
sailors, who frequented the house, and learned where she lived. They
understood the bearings of her history, and some of them used to
fabricate tales on purpose to get an introduction into the kitchen at
St. Margaret's Green, where they were sure to be welcomed and well
treated by Margaret. She was, at this time, very anxious to hear tidings
of her lover, and day after day exhibited symptoms of restlessness,
which could not long be passed by without notice. The frequency of
sailors' visits to the kitchen began to be rumoured through the house,
and stories injurious to the reputations of the inmates were circulated
in the neighbourhood. Moreover, the housekeeper missed various articles;
and meat, and bread, and stores, began to be unaccountably diminished.
Inquiries were instituted, and it was found that Margaret had certainly
given such and such things to sailors; and without doubt, some things
were stolen.

Under these circumstances, it became high time for the mistress of the
house to take notice of these things; and, in as gentle a manner as the
circumstances of the case would permit, she spoke to Margaret alone on
the subject. She regretted to hear from all quarters the alteration
which had taken place in her manner. She spoke to her most feelingly
upon the result of such a change, and with great kindness contrasted
the pleasure of the past with the sorrow which her late conduct
occasioned.

"I cannot," she added, "permit sailors of every kind to be incessantly
coming to the house at all hours with pretended news of Laud, and so
deceiving you by playing upon your disposition, and then robbing you and
the house. Reports of a very unpleasant nature have reached my ears
injurious to your character and that of my establishment. I cannot
submit to these things; and, though I most sincerely regard you,
Margaret, yet I must make you sensible of the danger you incur by
listening to the artful tales of these men. I strongly recommend you to
have nothing to do with them. Your own character is of much more
consequence to you than their nonsensical stories. If you wish it, I
will write for you to Portsmouth to make inquiries about Laud; and,
rather than you should be in doubt and affliction, and in any
uncertainty about him, I am sure that your master will send a
trustworthy person to search him out and ascertain the cause of his
detention.

"Let me see you henceforth what you used to be--cheerful and contented,
thankful and happy, and not over-anxious about matters which in the end
will all probably come right. You have my entire forgiveness of the
past, even though you do not ask it; but let me not be imposed upon for
the future. Go, Margaret, go; and let me hear no more of these
complaints."

Margaret heard all that her mistress said in perfect silence. She
neither defended herself, nor yet thanked her mistress, as she used to
do. She seemed sullen and indifferent. She left the presence of that
kind lady and most sincere friend with scarce a curtsy, and with such a
pale, downcast countenance, as deeply distressed her benefactress. Then
was it the painful reflection occurred, that her servant's religious
principles had been neglected; that her duty as a servant had been done
from no higher motive than that of pleasing man; and that when she had
failed to do so, and received a rebuke, her spirit would not bear it.
These reflections pressed themselves upon the kind lady's mind, and she
resolved to do her best to correct for the future that which appeared so
deficient.

Margaret returned to the kitchen unaltered, saving in feature; she was
silent, pale, and restless. She did her work mechanically, but something
appeared to be working upon her in a very strange way. She could not sit
still a moment. Sometimes she put down her work, and sat looking at the
fire, as if she was counting the coals upon it. At one time she would
rise and appear to go in search of something, without knowing what she
went for. At another time she would bite her lips and mutter something,
as if she were resolute and determined upon some point which she did not
reveal. Her fellow-servants did not lay anything to her, and took as
little notice as her strange manner would permit. They all considered
that something very unpleasant had occurred between herself and her
mistress. Some surmised that warning had been given; others that she
would leave of her own accord; but all felt sorry that one who had been
so highly esteemed should now be so perverse.

One evening, in the midst of these domestic arrangements of the kitchen,
when all the servants were assembled, a knock was heard at the
back-kitchen door; the girl who opened it immediately called out,
"Another sailor wants to see you, Margaret!"

Without rising from her seat, as she was accustomed to do with alacrity
upon such occasions, Margaret petulantly and passionately replied, loud
enough for the sailor to hear her through the door of the kitchen, which
now stood open, "Tell the fellow to go about his business! I have
nothing to do with, or to say to, any more sailors. Tell him to be off!"

The sailor stepped one step forward, and pitched a canvas bag in at the
kitchen-door, which fell with a loud chink upon the bricks. He had heard
the words of Margaret, and was off in a moment.

The reader will doubtless surmise that this was none other than Will
Laud. He it was who, at this unfortunate moment, returned, with all his
prize-money, on purpose to give it to Margaret, for whom he had kept it,
intending to purchase a shop at Brandiston, or one of the neighbouring
villages, where she might like to live. The bag had a label, directed

                    "To Margaret Catchpole,
                        John Cobbold's, Esq.,
                            Cliff, Ipswich."

Had this unfortunate girl been in a different mood, she might have
recognized the voice, as she once did on that memorable night when Mr.
William's life was saved. She heard the rap, and the inquiry for her;
but knowing her mistress's commands, and believing the visitor to be one
of those whom she had styled impostors and thieves, she had, with
considerable energy and irritability, spoken those cutting words, which
sent him away in despair.

What agony now struck upon the heart of Margaret! She started at the
sound of the bag as it fell at her feet; she looked bewildered for one
moment; the truth burst upon her, and she rushed out of the house with
such a wild shriek as pierced the heart of every one who heard it. She
ran into the street. The night was growing dark; but, on the opposite
side of the green, against the garden pales, she saw a sailor standing
and looking at the house. She ran to him, seized his arm, and exclaimed,
"Laud, is it you?"

He replied, "Yes--hush!"

"Come in, then; come into the house; I am sure you may come in."

The sailor walked on, with Margaret by his side. He did not speak. This
Margaret naturally attributed to her late repulsive words, and she now
said, soothingly, by way of apologizing for her harshness--

"I did not intend to send you away. I have lately had several sailors to
speak to me about you, and I was only too glad to hear them; but my
mistress gave orders to me this day not to have anything more to do with
them. I am sure she did not mean to send you away--neither did I intend
it. Come back, come back!"

"Come on, come on!" said the sailor, in as soft accents as he could.
And, by this time, they had approached the old granary wall, at the back
of the park stables. Opposite to these stables was a cow-keeper's yard,
with the dwelling inside the gates. The gates stood open: they might
rather be termed folding-doors, for, when shut, no one could see through
any part but the keyhole. The sailor turned in here with Margaret, as if
he knew the premises, and immediately closed the gates. A light glanced
from a window in the cottage, and fell upon the sailor's face. In an
instant Margaret recognized the hated features of John Luff.

The poor girl was paralysed; she was completely in the tiger's claws;
she could not speak, her heart so swelled with agony. She thought of
this monster's cruelty, and believed him to be capable of any desperate
deed. She recovered sufficient presence of mind, however, to be resolved
to grapple with him, should he have any evil purpose in view. She
retreated a few steps toward the gates. He suspected by this that she
had discovered who he was, and he threw off the mask in a moment.

"You know who I am, I see; and I know you. I do not want to harm you;
but I want to know something from you, which, if you tell me truly, you
shall receive no injury; but, if you do not tell me, I tell you plainly
that, as you are now in my power, so you shall never escape me. You
spoke just now of Will Laud. Now, no tacking about; bear up at once, and
come to the point. Tell me where he can be found."

"I do not know," replied Margaret.

"No lies, girl! You do know. You were expecting him from Portsmouth this
very night. I knew he was coming home with his prize-money; so did you.
I don't want his money, but I want him. I have sworn to take him, dead
or alive, and have him I will. You have seen him: I have not. Now tell
me where he is, and I will let you go; but if you tell me not, down you
shall go headlong into the well at the bottom of this yard!"

The truth burst upon the poor girl's mind, that this fellow was watching
Laud to murder him. She was now convinced that it was Laud who came to
the back-kitchen door, and that he must have gone over the garden
palings towards the Woodbridge Road, instead of going into the street.
With a woman's heart beating high at the danger of her lover, she
inwardly rejoiced, even at this dreadful moment, that her sudden words
had perhaps saved Laud's life. She forgot her own loss, and her spirit
rose to reply firmly and boldly to the cowardly rascal who threatened
her--

"I do not know where Laud is. I wish I did; and I would let him know
that such a villain as you are ought to be hanged."

The monster seized her, gagged her mouth with a tow-knot, and tried to
pull her away from the gate. She had seized hold of the long iron bar,
which was fastened to a low post, and fitted into a staple on the door.
She thought she heard voices outside the gates, speaking of her. Just as
the villain lifted her from the ground to fulfil his determined purpose,
she swung the iron against the door with such force, that the servants
outside were convinced something was wrong. They called, but received no
answer. They heard footsteps receding from the door, and called to
Smith, the cowkeeper, to know what was the matter. They did not receive
any immediate answer, but a light streamed under the door, and in
another moment they heard a scuffle, and Smith's voice calling for help.

With their united force they burst the gates open, and ran down the
yard. The candle was burning on the ground, and Smith prostrate beside
it. In a moment after, they heard the bucket of the well descending with
rapidity, and then a sudden splash, as if a heavy body had reached the
bottom of it.

Smith recovered quickly from his fall, and declared he saw a
sailor-looking man, carrying a female in his arms, and he firmly
believed that she was thrown down the well. He got his lantern, and
directed the men to take down the long church ladder, which was hung up
under the roof of the cowhouse, and bring it after him. The ladder was
put down the well, and Smith descended with his lantern, and called out
that there was a woman in the well.

"Unhank the bucket: tie the rope round her body, and ease her up the
ladder; we can help you to get her out so."

This was done: and when she was drawn up, the servants recognized the
features of Margaret Catchpole.

Smith was quite sure the man he saw was in sailor's dress. It was a
providential circumstance that the very act of gagging had prevented the
water getting to her lungs, and so saved her from drowning. She breathed
hard, and harder still when the gag was removed, and was very black in
the face. She had received a severe blow on the head from her fall
against the bucket, the iron of which had caught her gown, and was the
cause of its descending with her to the water. She might have had a
severer blow against the sides of the well but for this circumstance.
She was quite insensible, and in this state was carried home, where she
was laid between warm blankets, and the doctor sent for. She was quickly
bled, and was soon restored to conscious animation.

As she revived, she refused to communicate anything on the subject of
the disaster; and it was thought best, at that time, not to say much to
her about it. Conjectures were much raised, and the matter was much
talked over. The bag, which was opened by her master, was found to
contain one hundred and thirty guineas in gold and silver coin. Mr.
Cobbold took charge of it, and sealed it with his own seal. From all
that could be learned, it seemed that a sailor, whom all now conjectured
to be Laud, had thrown the money in at the door, and Margaret had
rushed out after him; that she had overtaken him; and that some violent
altercation had taken place between them, which had led to this most
extraordinary act. The whole affair seemed to be fraught with reckless
desperation. Could anything be more so than to throw such a sum of money
at a person's foot, and then to throw that person down a well? Why do
such a deed? Was he jealous? Had he heard of the many sailors who had
lately made Margaret's acquaintance? It might be, thought some, that he
had suddenly returned, and hearing of her conduct, had put the worst
construction upon it; and, in a desperate state, had been foolishly
generous, but too fatally jealous to hear any explanation. These ideas
passed through the minds of more than one of the family.

Margaret slowly recovered from the fever which had settled in her frame,
and greatly reduced it. She kept her bed for several weeks; she kept her
tongue, too, as still and as free from communication with any one as she
possibly could under the circumstances. She did not say anything of her
own accord, even to her anxious and beloved mistress.

It was soon circulated about that an atrocious attempt at murder had
been made in the parish of St. Margaret's, and the authorities of the
town took it up, and made inquiries into the matter. Understanding that
the young female was in too weak a state to have her deposition taken,
they did not visit her, but a reward was offered for the apprehension of
the man, and his person was described by the cowkeeper.

There was but one person to whom Margaret opened her lips willingly upon
the subject, and that was her old friend and medical attendant, Mr.
Stebbing. He learned from her, that it was not Laud that had thrown her
down the well, but a fellow named Luff, one of his former evil
companions. She told the doctor her belief that Laud was the person who
had unintentionally been driven away by her on that unfortunate night;
"And I fear," she added, "that he will be induced by my seeming
harshness to return to his old courses. He will never forgive me--I know
he never will! Oh, that I could have had one word with him! If I could
but get well, I would try and find him. Oh, doctor, I am so anxious to
get well! Pray, help me!"

"This is the plain reason, my girl, why you are so slow in recovering. I
knew you had something upon your mind that you kept back; and now that
you have told me thus much, let me speak to you in my own way. I tell
you honestly, Margaret, I never should think a man worth having who took
himself off in that kind of way. If, as you say, you refused to see a
sailor who did not give his name, the man ought to have been pleased,
rather than displeased, if he really loved you. If he was not a fool, he
would naturally think it would be the very first thing a girl with any
proper feeling would say. Take my word, Margaret, and I am somewhat more
experienced than you are, that if Laud is worth your having, he will
soon be here again. But don't you think of running after him. If he
comes back in a few days, well; but if not, I wish I might be able to
persuade you not to think of him at all. What could induce Luff to
attempt to murder you?"

"He threatened, that unless I told him where Laud was, he would throw me
down the well. I imagine that Laud having escaped from the gang of
smugglers, this villain was sworn either to be revenged upon him for
some quarrel, or else he had promised Captain Bargood, his employer, to
bring him back again. I was determined not to tell him that Laud had
been to the house, and the fellow took this desperate revenge on me.
But, thank God, his purpose is frustrated! You know Laud, doctor, as
well as I do. I can conceive that my speech took him so completely by
surprise, that, after he had been saving up all his money for me, and
had been congratulating his mind upon my joy at his change, my words
must have cut him to the quick, and have driven him away in
desperation."

"I wish I could think so, Margaret; but my idea is, that if he had been
the altered man you picture him, he would never have conducted himself
in that way. I tell you plainly, that I should be much more apt to think
he liked somebody else better than you; and that he threw down the money
merely because his conscience told him he had wronged you; and made him
feel that he ought to make you some recompense. If he does not come back
in a few days, I shall be confirmed in this opinion."

The poor girl had never looked at the matter in this light. She felt a
strange sensation creeping over her mind, and, in the weak state she
then was in, she had a superstitious dread of her sister's last
words--"Margaret, you will never marry William Laud." The words seemed
to tingle in her ears, and to come, at this moment, with redoubled
force; she shook her head, sighed, and thanked the doctor for his good
advice.

"I shall explain these matters to your mistress, Margaret," said Mr.
Stebbing. "It will remove all erroneous ideas, and may spare you some
pain and trouble. You must rouse yourself; the magistrates are daily
asking me about you; I have told them that you have too virulent a fever
upon you at present to make it safe for them to see you; and, depend
upon it, they will not be over-anxious to run any risk."

"Pray, sir, could not you take down what I have said, as well as having
any other person to do it?"

"If I do, Margaret, it must be read to you before two justices of the
peace, and you will have to swear to it."

"Well, sir, so it must be then."

And the good doctor left his patient, and gladly explained the exact
state of the case to her mistress.

It was not very difficult for that lady to form her own conclusions now.
She was of Margaret's opinion, that Laud's first step would be to rejoin
the smugglers. She thought that he would become a more desperate
character than ever. Instability of purpose was always Laud's failing.
When Margaret got about again, her mistress, having considered all the
circumstances, thought it best that she should go home to her parent's
roof for a time. "As you are so much better," said she to her one day,
"and have been so much shaken lately, and your deposition has been taken
before the magistrates, I would strongly recommend a little change for
the benefit of your health. The doctor thinks it advisable. You can go
and stay a while with your uncle and aunt Leader, or you can go and see
your father and younger brother. You may go when you please. Remember
that there are one hundred and thirty guineas in your master's hands, to
be appropriated to your use. Your father or your uncle may wish to
consult us for your benefit. We shall be happy to see them for such
purpose at any time. If you wish to enter into any business, you shall
have our best advice and assistance. I think change will do you good. If
you do not settle in any way for yourself, and still prefer service, we
shall be glad to receive you amongst us again when you have recruited
your health and spirits."

"I do not," Margaret replied, "want anything beyond my wages. I do not
consider that money my own, and shall never appropriate any of it to my
own use. It belongs to Will Laud. I feel very much obliged to both my
master and yourself for the interest you have always taken in me, and
for your offer of future assistance. I will consult with my friends. I
certainly do not feel so happy as I used to do."

Her kind mistress did not choose to remind her of the great alteration
of her temper and conduct of late, because she did not wish to revive
old grievances. And, as she was about to leave for a time, with a
possibility of some chance of settlement without service, she let the
matter rest.

Margaret, shortly after this conversation, took leave of as good a
mistress as a servant ever had. If she did not feel quite the warmth of
attachment to her that she had formerly done, the fault lay in herself,
not in that benevolent lady, who at that time and ever after, manifested
for her the sincerest kindness.




CHAPTER XX

CHANGE OF SCENE AND CHANGE OF PLACE


Soon after Margaret's recovery, and the taking of her deposition before
Colonel Neale, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Seekamp, justices of the peace, she
took leave of the affectionate friends she had gained in the family at
St. Margaret's Green. She had permission to go and stay as long as she
felt necessary for the recruiting of her spirits, and accordingly she
went to Nacton. She found her aged father and her younger brother living
in the same cottage, and in better work and condition than when she had
left them. They gladly welcomed her, and she spent a peaceful quiet time
with them, though painful thoughts intruded themselves upon her mind.
Old and joyful, as well as joyless, associations crowded upon her; she
thought of her career of fortune and misfortune, with many a deep and
painful sigh. Oh! had religious instruction then fortified that mind as
it did years afterwards, what comfort might it not have gained even in
this moment of adversity--what pain might it not have turned aside! Her
father soon perceived that disappointment was gnawing at Margaret's
heart, the more keenly, as it found stronger food to feed upon, from the
past revival of warm hopes, now severely blighted. The old man sought
her confidence, and found that, by conversation with her, he lightened
the heaviness of her load.

Margaret told her father the exact state of her mind, and did not
conceal anything from him.

"I much fear," said the old man, "that he has returned to the coast
again, and perhaps to his former vicious companions. Not that I have
heard anything of him; but I know that the coastguard are as active as
they ever were in the discharge of their desperate duty. I cannot think
of any other method of ascertaining the fact, than by sending your
brother Edward down to the coast for a time, and let him learn what he
can. He is a very sharp young fellow, and I can tell you, Margaret, that
for activity of head, heart, and limb, not one of my boys ever exceeded
him."

"I think the scheme might answer," replied Margaret: "at all events, it
is worth trying. I shall feel more satisfied, let the result be what it
may. I will give him part of my wages, so that he shall lose nothing by
the trip."

In the evening the plan was proposed to the young man, who readily
entered into his sister's views upon the subject. He would ask his
master for a week or ten days, or a fortnight, if required.

Margaret gave him strict charge to explain to Will Laud the circumstance
of her having so hastily uttered those words which had given him such
offence; that it was her mistress's command that she should see no more
sailors. "Be cautious," she added; "avoid that villain Luff; for in his
clutches you would be no more than a lamb beneath a tiger's paw. You
must visit all the different places along the coast from Felixstowe to
Aldeburgh. If any of the coastguard speak to you, tell them honestly who
you are; and if you see young Edward Barry, you may tell him all the
truth. He will help you, as he promised to befriend me, should I ever
require his aid. If any private opportunity of speaking to Laud should
occur, tell him his money is all safe, and shall be employed according
to his directions. I consider it his property, though directed to me.
Go, Edward. I shall spend many a restless hour until you return."

Edward Catchpole was soon on his road to Felixstowe. His first attempt
was to find out the old ferryman, Laud's father, and ascertain if he
knew anything of him. But he learned that the old man had quietly
departed this life, soon after receiving the news of his son's
engagement with the French, in Lord Howe's victory of the 1st of June.
The only thing like a footmark of Laud was in the report given by some
of the neighbours, that a sailor had been there some weeks ago, making
inquiries about the old ferryman; who, ascertaining, however, that he
was dead, went away, and no one heard anything more of him.

Edward next went on from Felixstowe to Bawdsey Ferry, and took up his
quarters at the Sun Inn. Here he seemed as one come to the seaside for
health; for he was to be seen wandering along the shore, and talking
whenever he could with the sailors. But he could gain no tidings,
directly or indirectly, of the person he sought. He shifted his position
from the Sun to the Old Beach House, at the mouth of the river Alde, now
known by the name of the Life-Boat public-house, then kept by Jacob
Merrells, a pilot.

Great preparations were then making for building forts and Martello
towers along the coast, to oppose any invasion. Numbers of surveyors,
and workmen in the employ of Government, frequented the Beach House. The
conversation sometimes turned upon smuggling, and young Catchpole's
heart beat high at such moments, with the hope of some clue to Laud.
Nothing, however, could he elicit, except that, as so many Government
men were about at that time, the smugglers were not likely to be
carrying on a very brisk trade. Still it _was_ carried on, and Captain
Bargood was, it was said, as busy as ever.

He next visited Boyton and Sudbourn, and Orford. He lodged at the
Mariner's Compass, then kept by an old weather-beaten sailor, who often
put him across from the quay on the banks of the Alde, to the North
Vere; and here he used to spend so many hours, that the coastguard, who
kept a watch upon his movements, suspected that his countryman's dress
was only a ruse to hide some sinister intention. They observed, however,
that he did not avoid them, but rather sought opportunity for their
acquaintance. A more dreary place than this North Vere is scarcely to be
found on all the coast of Great Britain. It is a mass of shingle nearly
twenty miles long, in some places nearly a mile broad, in others, only a
few hundred yards. This wall of pebbles separates the river Alde from
the ocean. The bank reaches from Hollesley Bay to Aldeburgh. The sea and
the river are very deep along the shelving banks on either side.

Thousands upon thousands of sea-birds build, or rather lay their eggs,
upon this desolate bed of shingle. A few wild, straggling plants of
seakale, and very long, thin, sickly spires of grass, occasionally shoot
up through the stones; but there is no other vegetation, except here and
there in some few hollows in this desert of stones, where a little clay,
mixed with the sea-fowl dung, formed a green patch. These spots used to
be much frequented by smugglers, which, from their sunken situations,
used to hide both them and their goods from view. Nothing prominent can
be seen for miles round this coast, except the Orford lights, which
stand conspicuous enough about midway between Hollesley and Aldeburgh.

The poor fellows who acted as preventive-service men in the coastguard
had no sinecure in this dreadful situation. The sun burnt them by day,
and the wind, from whatever quarter it blew, and especially in the
winter nights, was cutting and cold; and from the exposure between two
waters, the sea and the river, it roared like the discharge of
batteries. In some of the hollows these poor men used to construct huts
of such rude materials as came to hand; old pieces of wrecks, or
broken-up boats, which they covered with seaweed, collected after a
storm. These served to break the east winds which blew over the German
Ocean, in their terrible night-watches, which they were forced to keep
pretty constantly, as they were watched, though they were watchers. Many
were the desperate struggles upon this wild beach between these brave
men and the smugglers, in which hard fighting, and too often
death-blows, told the desperate nature of the service.

"Well, my man, what brings you upon this coast?" said one of the
officers to Edward Catchpole, as he was sauntering lazily along the
seaside.

"Oh," replied Edward, "I have got a holiday, and I wish to spend a day
or two by the seaside."

"A day or two! Why you have been here six days, and you have been
staying at Hollesley, and Boyton, and Felixstowe. Come, come, young man,
you are up to some work which may get you into trouble. You had better
take my advice, and sheer off."

"I have no unlawful calling; if I had, I might deserve your scrutiny.
You think, perhaps, that I am connected with smugglers, and am here for
the purpose of giving them information. I am, however, much more
desirous of receiving than of giving information. I never saw a
smuggler's boat in my life. You suspect me, I see; but what of?--tell
me."

"I ought to be suspicious of the truth of what you tell me. But I never
saw you before, and your looks do not betray deceit."

"Are you sure you never saw me before? Perhaps you may be mistaken. I
have seen you before to-day, and have spoken to you before this day. I
know you, if you do not know me."

"I certainly do not know you, and assuredly have never spoken to you
till now. My memory is pretty accurate as to persons and faces, yet
neither the one nor the other are familiar to me in you."

"Your face is familiar to me. I never saw you more than twice, and then
you spoke to me, and very kindly too."

"You certainly puzzle me. What is your name, and whence do you come?"

"You are Edward Barry, and I am Edward Catchpole. Do you remember the
lad that drove his sister down to the boat-house at Bawdsey?"

"Yes, I remember you now, though you are greatly changed. But what
brings you here?"

"That which keeps you here night and day! I am upon the look-out for the
smugglers."

"You may look a long time if you are looking for Will Laud. Do you not
know that he is in the British navy?"

"I knew that he was so, but I do not know that he is. My sister told me
if I met you to make you acquainted with her trials, and to ask your
assistance."

Here the young man told him the events which had taken place, and her
fears that Laud had returned to his old career.

"I do not think he has. His old companions are as active as ever; but I
heard that he had split with them, and that, when he was taken by the
pressgang, he was quarrelling with Luff, who, as I understood, escaped,
and swore to finish his work upon Laud whenever he could catch him.
There is not a man among us but would run any risk to deliver that
fellow up to justice. We have had orders from Government to secure him
if we can, and the reward is extended to us. He is a daring wretch, and
knowing, as he must do, our determination to take him, it is my
conviction that he will never be taken alive. But, if you wish to see a
bit of sharp work, we have got information that he is now off this
coast, preparing to land a cargo on the Vere. If you have a mind to lend
a hand to take him, you can be of great service to us, without running
much danger in work that you are not accustomed to."

"That I will do gladly."

"Well, now listen. You cannot walk five hundred yards along the brow of
the beach without meeting one of my men. They are all upon the shore in
readiness, and have had their eyes upon you, though you have not seen
them. Look along the line of the coast against the upper ridge of
shingle at the spring-tide mark,--you see nothing. If you walk along
that line five hundred yards from where you stand, you will see a head
pop up from the shingle and salute you. They are placed there, and have
buried themselves in the shingle on purpose to watch your motions. You
are suspected to be the person appointed to hoist a white flag,
opposite Havergate Island, as a signal that the boat may come ashore. I
implicitly believe what you have told me of yourself, and, if you will
assist me, I will in return render you all the assistance I can in
search of your object."

"I will do anything you appoint me to do within my power."

"I ask nothing of you, but what you can easily perform. Remember the
watchword which I now give you. It is 'King George for ever,' an
expression you must use if any of my men salute you. What I want you to
do is, to pass along the whole line in the direction of the spring-tide
mark, which is the highest point that the tide reaches. Every five
hundred yards you will find yourself spoken to by one of my men, who
will say, 'Who goes there?' Do you reply, 'King George for ever!' They
will say 'Hurrah! pass on.' You will find fourteen men, which will tell
you that four miles of this coast is strictly guarded to-night. Pass
along the whole line; but note when you come to the seventh man, and lay
this pole, and white flag which is bound to it, about twenty yards on
this side of him. You will observe that, at that point, a tall poplar
tree in Sudbourn Grove, on the horizon, will be in a direct line with
you and the Shepherd's Cottage on Havergate Island. Leave the flag-pole
there until you return from going the whole line. Take this keg over
your shoulder, and replenish every man's can as you pass along, for they
will have sharp work to-night, and it is cold work lying in suspense. As
you come back from the line, unfurl the flag, and fix the staff strongly
in the ground. The wind blows off-shore, and will soon carry it
streaming outward. It will then be your duty to take up your position at
a respectful distance from the spot, and see that no one from the land
removes the flag. I strongly suspect that the old shepherd, who lives in
the Red Cottage on Havergate Island, is the man who will come to remove
it if he can. If you can secure him without our aid, so much the
better; but if not, just put your lips to this whistle which I give you,
and assistance will be close at hand. At all events, the old fellow must
be secured, and carried back to his cottage, and be bound to his bed.
And you must remain with him until night draws on. Then put the old
man's light, an oil lamp, which you will find standing under the bed,
into the little window looking towards the sea, which is at the
gable-end to the east.

"Then you must come over again with his boat, and mind and shove her the
full length of her moorings into the water before you fix her anchor on
the shore, or the falling tide will leave her high and dry. Then return
to the place, where you can bury yourself in the shingle. If I mistake
not, as soon as the moon is high, you will see a boat come ashore with a
cargo. There is a dell not far off the flag, to which they will probably
carry all their tubs. You must not be seen by them. You will easily see
how my men manage to hide themselves. Now be very particular in noting
what I tell you, or the lives of many may be forfeited. After the men
have landed their goods, two of them will go across to the river, to see
if the shepherd's boat is moored ready for them. When they come back,
you will hear them say 'Up! all's right!' They will then each take up
his burden, and proceed with it to the river's side. I expect there will
be ten or twelve of them. As soon as they are all fairly out of the
dell, do you give a good loud long whistle. By this time, my men, who
will have seen the boat coming ashore, will be getting on their hands
and knees close up to you. The smugglers will throw down their loads,
and hasten to their boat; we shall be ready to receive them. But,
whatever you do, lie still, and you will be out of danger; and if you
have a mind to see what a battle is, you will have a good view of it. I
do not ask you to risk your life, you will probably see some of us
killed, and should I be among the number, just remember, that in the
bottom of my cartridge-box there is a letter to my sister, which I will
get you to deliver. Do you think you fully understand me? and are you
now willing to help us? It is singular that I should find in you the
very instrument we wanted. I was about to have you secured, and to
perform the part myself; but ten to one if the old shepherd saw me, but
he would smell powder, and keep at home; but, seeing you a country
youth, he will not mind you, but will come to the scratch. You see how
much depends upon your courage."

Young Edward Catchpole had long made up his mind, notwithstanding all
the danger, to run any risk sooner than give up the enterprise; like his
sister he possessed great personal courage, and was quick, intelligent,
and active. He also looked upon the cause as a good one; it was for his
king and country, and for a sister whom he loved. He had given up the
idea of meeting with Laud, and thought only of securing the vile
assassin whose crimes had reached such an enormous pitch. He entered
upon his commission immediately, pursued his career along the high-water
mark of the beach, and, true enough, about every five hundred yards, a
head popped up from the shingle, with, "Who goes there?" "King George
for ever!" was the answer; and "That's right, my hearty, we'll drink his
health if you please," was the hint for the young man to replenish the
brave sailor's can. He noted the seventh man; there he left the flag and
staff, and proceeded on the whole length of the line. As he returned he
placed the pole firmly into the deep shingle, and unfurled the white
sheet, which soon formed a most conspicuous streamer in the air. He then
quietly secreted himself in the manner he had been shown by one of the
men, by working his body into the shingle, and letting the larger stones
fall over him until he was completely covered, save his head. It was not
long before a sail, which had been seen in the distance, now kept
standing off and on in the offing. But now came his own work.

About an hour after the flag had been unfurled, Edward plainly heard the
bleating of sheep, and saw a shepherd driving a score of sheep
leisurely along towards the flag, apparently watching his sheep cropping
the scant herbage of the North Vere. As he came whistling on, and
approached the staff, looking cautiously around him, Edward thought it
was time to commence proceedings, especially as the old man laid hold of
the flagstaff to unship it. He jumped up, and called to the shepherd,--

"I say, old boy, let that bell wether of mine alone, will you?"

The shepherd started, and left the staff, and approached the young man.

"What do you put that flag there for, young man?"

"Because such are my orders."

"But suppose I wish to have that flag for a sheet for my bed to-night,
who shall prevent it?"

"I will."

"Why, I could lick half a dozen such fellows as you, with one arm."

"Maybe so--but come, now, let's have a fair trial of strength. Lay down
your crook between us, and see if you or I can pull the other over it.
If you succeed, then take the flag. If I, then you must take yourself
off how you can."

"Done," said the shepherd--"it shall be a bargain;" and he threw his
crook down on the ground. "Now for it, young man."

Accordingly, they approached each other. Young Edward saw that he had a
formidable antagonist to contend with, a brawny, sinewy frame, full of
compact strength, and more than an equal match for his youth; but he
resolved not to give the whistle, if he could overcome the man any how
by himself.

"Stop," said Edward; "you have laid the crook so as to give yourself the
upper hand: that is not fair. Lay it down from sea to river, so that we
both have the same chance in the slant. I'll show you what I mean."

And the young man showed him in a moment what he meant; for, taking up
the crook, and stooping down to place it as he had said, with a
shepherd's dexterity (for the reader will remember that the youth was
also a shepherd) he swung it round the ankle of the old man, and at the
same instant gave it such a jerk, as pitched him backwards upon his
head, which came with such violence upon the stones, that he was
completely stunned. Edward was for a moment fearful that he was dead;
but conjecturing, very wisely, that he might revive, he took out of his
wallet the old man's sheep-cords (strong thongs which shepherds use when
they dress their sheep, or such as sheep-shearers use when they clip
them), and, without more ado, he tied his hands and legs together behind
him, so that he was completely pinioned.

It was well that young Catchpole had taken this advantage and
precaution; for, upon searching the inner pocket of the wallet, he found
a brace of pistols, primed and loaded, which would have made the contest
very uneven. As the old man shortly began to revive, he called out most
lustily for help.

"Hold your tongue," said Edward, "or I will shoot you dead with your own
pistols! Lie still, and no one will hurt you. What should an honest man,
in your calling, do with such weapons as these?"

The old fellow was soon convinced that he had to deal with as good a
hand as his own; and one as expert at catching a ram, too. His arms and
legs were tied in such a scientific manner, as convinced him that the
young man was a shepherd. He thought it best, therefore, to bear his
present condition silently.

"Come along, old boy," said the youth, as he stuck the shepherd's crook
under the cords, and began dragging him along towards his boat; "I'll
ease you down to the river."

"Take care you are not eased down yourself," said the old man. "I have
friends, who will give you your deserts before long, and ease me of
these clutches."

"I'll tell you what you deserve, old man; and what, if the coastguard
suffer to-night, you will receive. You deserve to be thrown into the
river as you are; and if I have many words with you, and you refuse to
give me a plain direction and answer to whatever question I put to you,
you may depend upon it I will do it myself; and that will soon settle
all disputes between us. You have had in your wallet, pistols; your
crook would make a flagstaff; and I find, upon dragging you along, that,
as your jacket buttons give way, you have half a sheet round your body.
Tell me, when did you intend to give the smugglers the signal? It will
do you no good to tell me a lie. You have seen enough to be convinced I
understand what you are. You had better tell me the truth at once, or a
cold salt-water bath will compel you to do so."

"Not to-night!--not to-night!"

"Why not to-night?"

"Because the coastguard are upon the watch."

As they proceeded on their way, Edward asked the old man, "Do you expect
Captains Laud or Luff to-night? You may as well tell me; for you must be
pretty well convinced, by this time, that I know what is going on."

"Well--I expect Captain Luff. Laud is dead."

The young man fairly dropped the crook, as he repeated Maud's
words--"Laud is dead! Laud is dead!--How do you know that?"

"If you will unbind me, I will tell you all about it."

"Perhaps I may, when you tell me how and where he died, and show me what
proof you have of his death."

"Will you unbind me then?"

"Yes; when I think you have been bound long enough."

"These thongs cut me sore."

"How can that be? they are too broad to cut; and if you do not attempt
to draw your hands asunder, you know, as well as I do, that the knot is
tied so that they cannot hurt you. I see, by your keeping your hands
close together, that they do not hurt you."

They had now arrived at the river's side, where a large ferry-boat, such
as is used to carry stock over from the mainland to the island, was
moored against the shore. Edward lifted the old man into the
broad-bottomed craft, and laying him down upon the boards, pulled up
the anchor, and shoved off towards the island. The old man soon
perceived that Edward was no sailor, by the manner in which he managed,
or rather mismanaged the boat; and truly this was the hardest work the
young man had yet to perform. He had been so taken up with the thought
of doing everything he was commissioned to do, and in his pride so
determined to do it all himself, without help, that he had overlooked
his greatest difficulty, and forgot that he should want assistance to
row the boat. He still did not use his whistle; but, with very great
exertion, and very awkward management, contrived to bring the boat to
the island, and to shove her along the side of the marsh wall, to a
creek, close by the shepherd's house. He then lifted the old man out of
the boat, and dragged him up the mud wall, and laid him down at his
cottage door. The door was locked; and, in the scuffle, the key of it
had fallen out of the old man's pocket; and Edward was obliged to make
his way in at a low window behind the house; when, having forced back
the bolt, he pulled the old man in, and lifted him on to a bed, which
was in the room adjoining, and took a seat by his side.

"I'm both hungry and thirsty after all my exertions; have you any
refreshment of any kind in this comfortable dwelling?"

"You will find plenty in the closet by the fireplace. I wish I could eat
and drink with you."

"So you may, and I will feed you as if you were my cosset lamb."

He soon found that the shepherd's cottage contained sufficient to
recruit the spirits of any man whose stomach was not too proud for
wholesome food. There was a slice of cold boiled bacon, and bread and
cheese in plenty. There was brandy, too, but very bad water; and it
required something stronger than tea to take off the brackish taste;
brandy alone could make it palatable for man. The cattle sometimes
suffered by drinking it. The young shepherd fed the old one, whose
muscular limbs were now as powerless as an infant's; not from second
childhood, but from the dexterity with which they were bound together.
There was something of kindness in the young man's manner, though he was
justified, in self-defence, to take the advantage he had done.

"Now," said he, "tell me how you know Captain Laud is dead?"

"Captain Luff told me so."

"And is that all you know of it? Have you no other proof?"

"Yes; I have the captain's watch, which Luff gave to me, and the case of
it has his true-love's name engraved in the inside. The watch is in the
old plum-tree box, in the cupboard."

The young man eagerly examined the spot. He found the box, and in it the
watch, with both names engraved on the inside of the case, shining as
bright, and the engraving as sharp, as if it had been executed only that
very day. "William Laud and Margaret Catchpole," round the interior
circumference, and "June 1st, 1794," with a wreath of victory
surrounding it, in the centre.

"All this is correct, as you say; but how did he die?"

"Well, I will tell you all I know. Captain Luff (if you do not know him,
I do) is a most desperate fellow; a price is set upon his head, dead or
alive, so that it be but taken. Well, he murdered the poor girl whose
name is written in the watch; and I firmly believe that he murdered
Captain Laud too! Towards the close of the last year I was upon Sudbourn
Heath, keeping my sheep, and who should I meet but Captain Luff, who
accosted me with this question:--

"'Have you seen my young commander, Captain Laud, pass this way?'

"Well, it was a curious question, and quite natural too; for about six
o'clock that very morning, as I was taking my sheep out of the fold, who
should pass by me but the gallant young fellow whom he inquired after?
Singularly enough he asked after Luff, and whether I knew if he was upon
the coast. I told him that I had not had any signals lately; but that
some of the crew were ashore, and were staying at the Mariner's Compass,
at Orford. Well, I told Luff the same as I now tell you; and he no
sooner received the intelligence, than with all the eagerness of a
blood-hound when he touches upon the scent of his victim, he was off for
Orford in a moment. Well, I thought this was all for old acquaintance'
sake, or for business; so I rather rejoiced in the adventure. That very
night I had made an appointment to take some game; and as I went up the
Gap Lane, leading to the Heath, I heard angry words, and soon found the
two captains at variance. I had no wish, as you may suppose, to
interfere with their strife, so I quietly laid myself up in the ferns.
It was a dreadful sound to hear the thunder of those two men's voices.
How they cursed each other! At length I heard the report of two pistols,
and one of the balls passed within a yard of my head, but as for blows,
I could not count them. They fought each other like two bull-dogs, I
should say for near an hour, till I heard the snap and jingle of a
broken sword, and then one of them fled. I found the broken part of the
blade next morning close to the spot. It was red with blood; and the
marks of feet in the sand were as numerous as if twenty men had been
contending. I found drops of blood sunk into the sand all the way down
the lane, until you come to the marshes: here I lost the track. I have
seen no more of Laud since. But what makes me think that he was killed
by Luff on that night is the after-behaviour of the captain. About two
months after this occurrence I received a signal from the North Vere;
and who should it be but Luff. Well, he came home to my cottage, and as
we sat together I said, by way of a sounder, 'Where's Captain Laud?'

"'What makes you ask that question?' says he, hastily and fiercely.
'Have you any particular reason for asking me after him? Speak out at
once,' says he,--'speak out; have you heard anything about him?'

"The terrific glare of the fiend's eye fell upon me so cruelly that I
dared not tell him I had witnessed the fight, so I said, 'I have not
seen the captain for so long a time, that I did not know where he was.'

"'Ho! ho! that's it, is it?' says he. 'Have you seen him since the
morning you fed your sheep on Sudbourn Heath?'

"'No,' says I; 'he was then anxious to see you. Did you find him?'

"'Yes, I did; and I have reason to think he was lost at sea that very
night; for he agreed to come on board, and we have seen nothing more of
him, nor two of our crew, since that very time. Two of my men were in
the river boat, but I have seen nothing of them since. They were to have
joined the crew off the head of the North Vere, but we never saw them
again.'

"'That's very odd,' says I; 'but how did you join the crew?'

"'I got a cast down the river in Master Mannell's boat, the old
fisherman of Boyton.'

"Then, after a pause,

"'Here, Jim,' says he, 'I'll make you a present of poor Will's watch. I
do not like to wear it; it grieves me when I look at it. We used to be
such friends.'

"Now I thought this very strange, and it confirmed me in the opinion
that his conscience would not let him rest. I took the watch, and you
have now got it in your hand."

"What shall I give you for this watch?" said Edward.

"What you like; for ever since I have had it, it has appeared to me as
if I was an accomplice in Captain Laud's murder."

"I will give you half a guinea."

"Well, it is yours."

"I will put the money into the box in the cupboard. Time now wears away.
What are all these pieces of wood for?"

"They are tholes for the boat, when the smugglers use it."

"With your permission I will take them with me. Have you any oars for
them also?"

"No! the smugglers bring their own oars."

"Well, I must be moving; and now since you have told me the truth, and I
have every reason to thank you, I will candidly tell you who I am: I am
Margaret Catchpole's brother."

"You are a shepherd, then?"

"I am a shepherd."

"I was sure of it by the manner in which you used these thongs. May I
ask, is your sister dead?"

"She is not dead. How many men do you expect from the lugger when they
land?"

"Ten, with the captain."

"Well, lie you still now. I must, for the sake of fulfilling the orders
of my commander, fasten your cords to the bedstead, or I may be blamed.
So: that will do. Now, should the captain himself come to see you, he
will be convinced that the foul play was not your part; and if he does
not come to-night, I will. But time presses, and I must do my duty.
Where is your lamp?"

"I see by your question," said the old man, "that all is discovered. You
want the lamp to put in the window upstairs; you will find it under the
bed."

There it was, and was soon lighted and put in its proper place: a joyful
signal of success to the brave and patient coastguard, and a fatal lure
to the desperadoes on board the smuggler.

"Now then, old friend, good-bye," said Edward. "If success attend our
scheme you and I may be better acquainted; you may be glad that you have
told me all the truth. Farewell."

The youth was soon on board the ferry-boat; and with much labour brought
her to the same spot where he had before unmoored her. The tide had
fallen some feet, and was near its last ebb, so that he very wisely drew
her up as high as he could on to the shore, concluding that if he
anchored her in the water when the tide flowed again, which it would
soon do, it would cover the anchor on the shore. He drew her up far
enough just to place her cable's end at high-water mark; and having put
the tholes in their proper places, he then walked across to the white
flag. Just before he passed the dell, who should lift up his head but
young Barry!

"I began to think our plan had not succeeded. Is all right?"

"All is as you could wish it, and more; but I will tell you all another
time."

"We can see the lugger," said young Barry, "standing off and on: our
white flag is successful. You must go to the right, so as to lay
yourself in such a position as to command a view of this little dell and
the river. Bring yourself to anchor full a hundred yards from this hole,
for I suspect the fight will be here; keep your head below the ocean
mark when you give the signal, or a few bullets may whistle about your
ears."

Only those who have had anything to do with the preventive service can
tell the dangers and difficulties which the poor fellows who defend our
trade have to encounter; how much toil and anxiety, and how seldom
sufficient honour or reward do such men gain in discharging their
onerous duty. It is a life of feverish vexation. Fancy fourteen men
collected and stationed along four miles of coast the whole day, buried
in the pebbles, and waiting on a cold night for the approach of the
smuggler. They all saw the vessel reconnoitring and sailing about the
offing: the least want of circumspection on their part would thwart the
scheme which up to this moment promised success. Even the men accustomed
to this kind of work shook with the anxiety of suspense; but what must
have been the sensations of the young landsman who had to give the
signal for the onset, in which more than one might fall? To say that he
did not suffer severely, enough almost to make him wish himself at home,
would not be true; the thought, however, that he might be instrumental
in bringing the villain Luff to justice for all his crimes, and the
singular manner in which he had discovered his treachery to Laud, made
the young man some amends for the truly painful task he had undertaken.

Night now began to draw on, and the sea-birds left off their screaming;
the tern and the dottrell hastened to their resting-places; and the last
of all the feathered sea-shore tribe, the one which goes to roost the
latest, the grey curlew, bent his rapid wing toward Havergate Island,
and gave a mournful note as he flapped over the head of the young
watchman. As the moon arose the wind began to blow a little fresh, and
the ocean to roar upon the beach. The smugglers rejoiced at this, as it
would enable them to land their cargo with less chance of being heard.
The flag still streamed and flapped in the wind; the light shone like a
star in the shepherd's cot; and the time drew near for the contest.

Not a sound could be now heard save that of the wind. The vessel,
however, might be seen in the moonlight, approaching the shore; and now
a heavy eight-oared boat was seen to leave her: she was heavily laden,
even to the gunwale. The boat lurched through the breakers like a log.
On she came, with her helmsman, John Luff, who laid her broadside on to
the shore. Now for an anxious moment. Not a word was spoken. The wind
preventing any sound along the shore, nothing could be heard even of the
grounding of the boat's keel upon the beach. Dark figures of men were
seen getting out of the boat. They were expert sailors, up to their
work; as the sea heaved the boat up, they dragged her higher on the
shore, until they could more conveniently unload her. This was done as
expeditiously as possible; each man carried a sack heavily laden. They
went to the very spot that Barry had named, deposited their load, and
again returned to their boat. Twice they performed this work; and now
the two last men, carrying the eight oars, brought up the rear. The
eight quietly seated themselves on the sacks, whilst the other two went
forward with the oars; they returned, and, as young Edward concluded,
must have said, "All's right."

By this time the coastguard were drawing their lines closer to the spot,
each man taking up his brother, or calling on him as he passed him,
until the whole fourteen were within the space of ten yards from the
flag; breathless, on their knees did they await the shrill whistle
which, like the trumpet's sound, was to give the word for the charge.

Young Catchpole saw the smugglers emerge from the dell, with each man
his sack upon his shoulder; for an instant he thought he ought to wait
until they came the second time, but as his orders did not say so, and
he judged that if they once stowed away half their cargo they would make
quickly for the river, he deemed it best to give the signal at once; so
drawing in his breath, he gave the whistle such a long, shrill blast,
that had the wind lain that way it might have been heard to Orford. He
did not raise himself up, and it was well he did not, for over his head
whizzed a ball, and flash--flash--flash went the pistols. As was
predicted the men dropped their cargoes, and ran for the pit, but here
stood the coastguard ready to receive them, young Barry having brought
his men down below the horizon of the sea, that they might not be
exposed to the sight of the smugglers, whilst the river lying lower, and
they ascending from it, became a visible mark against the moonlit water
for their fire.

Dreadful was the contest that ensued. The smugglers formed a close line:
the coastguard line was more measured, and with some spaces between each
two men, so that their danger was the less. The firing, as they
approached each other, was awful; two men of the smugglers fell. They
closed nearer, and swords clashed and sparkled in the moonlight; and the
uproar at length became more audible than the noise of the wind and
waves. At last there was one sudden, tremendous yell from the boat's
crew, and then the cry for quarter; some fell, others fled, not to the
boat but along the coast. It was the object of the coastguard not to
pursue them so far as to separate from each other; and as three fled one
way, and two another, they merely sent flying shots after them, and
cleared a passage to the boat. The shout announced the leader of the
smugglers to be shot, and two more were lying by his side, and two
surrendered, and were disarmed and guarded, whilst but one of the
coastguard had fallen.

As the enemy was dispersed young Barry mustered his men, and missed his
comrade. They found him near the two smugglers who had first fallen.
Close to them lay the captain, his arm nearly cut in two, shot in the
side, and severely wounded on the head. Young Edward, who had seen the
fight, now came forward to render further assistance. The two smugglers
were dead; but the preventive-service man and the captain of the crew
were not dead, though both were severely wounded.

The two wounded men were taken to the shepherd's cottage. Four men, with
Barry and young Edward, rowed across to the island, whilst ten men were
left to guard the prisoners and the cargo, and to secure the smugglers'
boat. The whole proved to be a most valuable prize.

The captain, as the reader may suppose, proved to be no other than the
hated John Luff. The old shepherd was released by young Catchpole, and
from cramp and pain from his long doubled-up position he could scarcely
stand. The two wounded men were placed upon his bed, presenting such a
contrast of feature, expression, and character, as the ablest artist in
the world could not have justly delineated. Luff, with his dark brow,
haggard eye, and hairy face, looking like a dying hyena, looked up and
saw before him, Barry, Catchpole, and the shepherd; and with the scowl
of revenge (a strong passion to exhibit in such agony), he muttered a
dreadful curse upon them all. The poor coastguard man, with his pale but
placid countenance, though suffering severely from his wounds, extended
his hands to his commander, and implored him to let him be carried to
another bed, to let him lie on the floor in the other room, or anywhere
but head to head beside the demon who lay shuddering and cursing by his
side.

The bed of the shepherd's daughter, who was at that time staying at
Orford, was brought down and laid in the keeping-room beside the
fireplace, and the poor fellow was laid upon it. Luff's death-hour was
evidently at hand. It was a fearful thing to see him in his horrible
tortures, and to hear him, in his groans and moans, proclaiming himself
the murderer of Will Laud. Whenever he opened his eyes he saw nothing
but the evidences of guilt before him, as he raved in wild frenzy,--

"There! there! there! I see him! He is not dead!--no! no! no! There's
Laud and Margaret Catchpole! Look! they laugh at me!"

At last, with one wild scream, his spirit, like an affrighted bird, fled
away. Never did those who stood near him witness such a death. A cold
shudder crept over their flesh, and they owned one to another that they
should never forget that awful sight.

When it became known that the notorious smuggler, John Luff, was killed,
numbers came to see him; and few that saw his body but owned that he was
a fearful fellow when living. Government paid the reward over into the
hands of the coastguard, who all subscribed liberally towards the
comfort of their wounded messmate. Edward Catchpole was included among
those who shared the reward, and this enabled him to pay all his
expenses without any recurrence to his sister's purse.

When young Catchpole returned to Nacton with the eventful tidings of his
journey, and related all the particulars to Margaret, stating his full
belief of Laud's death, she pondered for a while over his statement, and
then expressed her dissent from her brother's conclusions.

"I see no certain proof of Laud's death," said she. "The old shepherd
and the wretch Luff, may both have supposed him dead; but there is a
mystery not yet cleared up which fills me with strange hopes--I mean the
sudden disappearance of the two sailors with the boat that very night.
Luff made no mention of them in his dying moments. I really think these
two men are somehow connected with the safety of Laud; and I yet have
hope."

She rejoiced, however, that Laud was not found in company with his
former band, and especially with that bad man Luff; and drew
conclusions, in her own mind, favourable to his character and conduct.
She was very grateful to her brother; and not long afterwards she
proposed to return to her place. She had certainly been very remiss in
not communicating with her mistress once since she left her. So taken up
was she with her thoughts of Laud, that she forgot her situation; and,
until her brother's return, had never spoken of going back to Ipswich.
Her mistress not hearing of or from her, sent over to Brandiston, and
there learned that she had never been to see her uncle and aunt, nor had
they heard anything of her. A man was sent to Nacton, and,
unfortunately, the cottage was locked up, as Margaret had been that day
to spend a few hours with her first mistress, at the Priory Farm. These
strange circumstances made her mistress at Ipswich conclude that she was
gone in search of Laud; and consequently she engaged another servant.
When Margaret returned to St. Margaret's Green she found her place
filled up; and her mistress reproached her for her neglect in not having
had some communication with her. Margaret felt hurt and disappointed.
She stayed a short time at one or two places, but was extremely
unsettled and dissatisfied. She was in the habit of frequently visiting
St. Margaret's Green, and of being asked to go and see the children.
About eight months after a vacancy unexpectedly occurred in Mrs.
Cobbold's establishment, and Margaret entered a second time into the
service of her former mistress, in the capacity of cook; but her stay
this time was short. She was now as unlike as possible to the Margaret
of former days. She was not happy. Her temper had been soured by
disappointment, and her spirit made restless by rumours of Laud being
alive. She became impatient towards her fellow-servants, careless in her
dress and manner, and negligent in her work--a complete contrast to her
former self, who had been a pattern of order, decency, and regularity.
At the end of one year, it became her mistress's painful duty to give
her a final warning. It was a real heartfelt sorrow to that benevolent
lady to be compelled, for the sake of example to her other servants, to
discharge Margaret. But she could not do otherwise.

Here was a painful duty discharged conscientiously. Let not the reader
think that it made no impression. It fell with full force upon
Margaret's mind. Margaret wept most bitterly when she found that she
must now break off all connexion with that family in which she had once
been so happy. She merely asked permission to remain till the end of the
week, and that in such a subdued tone and supplicating manner, as
touched her mistress's heart. It is needless to say that her request was
granted.

The morning of departure arrived, and not a servant, no, nor a child in
that house, could say "Good-bye" without tears. Her mistress, when
handing over to her the money directed to her by Laud, made Margaret sit
down, and conversed with her upon her future prospects. She also gave
her some good books for a remembrance, expressed a hope that she would
read them, and told her she should forget all but her good deeds, and be
ever ready to serve her.

Then, with tears rolling down her cheeks, Margaret tottered to the cart
which had been provided to take her to Brandiston, and left that house
never to enter it again, and never to look upon it without terror.

The author cannot help introducing at the close of this chapter an
authenticated document, which has been sent to him from Reading, in
Berkshire. It is the testimony of a man still living, who has never
forgotten Margaret Catchpole: and the reader will say he had good reason
to remember her. This man now lives in the service of Mr. John Snare,
No. 16 Minster Street, Reading; and, since the publication of the former
edition of this work, has made known to his master a providential escape
which he had in his infancy, through the intrepidity of this
extraordinary woman. Poor Margaret! it is with inexpressible pleasure
that the author transcribes this tribute to her memory; for it proves to
him, that whatever was the cause of her unsettled state of mind, her
noble spirit was still as prompt to hear the cry of the helpless as in
her days of confidence and comfort with her beloved mistress. The author
is indebted to the Rev. John Connop, Bradfield Hall, Reading, for the
original document, which he now gives to the public; and which he is
happy to add, is fully confirmed by persons now living at Ipswich.

     _The Declaration of William White, of Reading, in Berkshire._

     "My parents lived on St. Margaret's Green, St. Margaret's parish,
     Ipswich, about five doors from the house of John Cobbold, Esq.
     Margaret Catchpole was then living in Mr. Cobbold's service as
     cook. About the middle of the spring of 1797, I, being then a child
     about six years of age, was playing on the Green with many of the
     neighbours' children; and in the midst of our sport, a mad bull
     rushed most furiously towards us, directing his attack upon our
     little group to the precise spot where I stood. Paralysed by fear
     and surprise, I saw no hope of safety in flight, and must have
     fallen a victim to the assault of the infuriated beast, had not my
     companions set up a cry of alarm. At this critical moment, Margaret
     Catchpole rushed out of Mr. Cobbold's house, to ascertain the cause
     of the disturbance, and had the courage to fly in the face of the
     bull, just as he was in the act of tossing me. Indeed I was
     slightly gored by him, and must inevitably have been severely
     injured, had not this courageous woman snatched me up, and carried
     me into Mr. Cobbold's kitchen, taking every care of me until my
     parents arrived.

     "I was not seriously hurt, but I have been told that my bruises and
     scars did not disappear for several weeks; and during this time I
     was visited by Margaret Catchpole and Mrs. Cobbold, who both took
     great notice of me, and evinced great anxiety for my recovery.

     "I remember that this courageous act of Margaret Catchpole's was
     much talked of at the time, and the Rev. Mr. Fonnereau, the rector
     of St. Margaret's, took much interest in the affair; so much,
     indeed, did he think of it, that on my marriage in 1817, he, being
     still the rector, and performing the ceremony, reminded me of the
     extraordinary circumstance which had occurred in my childhood, and
     of my providential escape from an early grave.

     "My uncle, Samuel Bayley (my mother's brother), was cooper and
     brewer to J. Cobbold, Esq., being in his employment at the Cliff
     Brewery, near Ipswich, at the time the above occurred.

                                        "William White.

     "Reading, February 18th, 1847."




CHAPTER XXI

GUILT AND CRIME


The reader will be anxious to know what really was the fate of Will
Laud, and will not be surprised to learn that Margaret's idea was quite
in accordance with the fact. When Luff quitted the old shepherd upon
Sudbourn Heath, in search of Laud, he was prepared to find him at the
Compasses at Orford, and there he did find him, and he pretended to be
glad to see him, and to be very friendly with him. All former
animosities seemed to be extinct; and Luff quickly wormed out of him
the secrets of his heart. He asked after Margaret with as much apparent
indifference as if he had heard nothing of her.

"I have left her for ever," said Laud. "I will have nothing more to do
with her. Some more powerful enemy than I have ever contended with has
at last prevailed over me, and pulled down the proud flag I had hoisted
in her love. I heard her say, almost to my face, that she would never
see another sailor, though she must have been expecting me home, for I
sent her word by an old messmate that I was coming; and what could she
mean, but to let me know flatly that she preferred some lubberly
landsman (perhaps some powdered footman) to one of Lord Howe's Britons?
I could stand it no longer, so I just threw all my prize-money
overboard; and here I am, Jack, ready to join your crew again. Have you
forgotten our last rub? Come, give us your hand, Jack."

Luff put out his blood-stained palm, and pretended all the peace of a
restored friendship. Grog was ordered; and the two easily struck a
bargain to go on board again in the service of Captain Bargood. But Luff
was too determined a villain to forgo that opportunity, which now
offered itself, of fulfilling the deadly purpose he had often sworn to
his crew that he would accomplish, "to bring Laud a captive, dead or
alive, on board the brig." The treacherous fellow had left no stone
unturned to bring about this plan. It was he who pursued such a system
of fraud with regard to Margaret as led to her disgrace. He hired
sailors to deceive her with false tales, and to learn what they could of
Laud, that he might the more easily wreak his vengeance upon his victim.
And now at last here was the object of his hatred, trusting to him as he
would have done to the most tried friend. He was as loud and artful in
his ridicule of Margaret as a determined monster of envy could be. He
had heard, he said, many tales of her; and that she was at last going to
marry one of the brewhouse men. Such were the inventions of this
hollow-hearted villain, to inflame the irritable mind of Laud. There
were two of the crew present, to whom Luff had given the wink, and made
them to understand he had trapped his man.

"Let us take a bit of a cruise, and have a look at the port," said Luff
to his pretended friend; and then turning to the others, he said, "We
shall be in again presently, and go on board to-night."

"Aye, aye, master," replied one of the men, "all right!--I say, Sam,"
observed he, when the two captains had left the room, "what a shocking
fellow our captain is! I'll wager now that he either puts a bullet
through Laud's head, or a dagger in his heart, or shoves him overboard
at night!"

"Aye, Jim, I don't mind a brush with the coastguard, but I don't like
such cold-blooded work as this any more than you do. Don't let us wait
for the captain; but, as soon as we have finished our grog, let's be off
for the boat."

"With all my heart, Sam; and let us drink our young captain's health,
and good luck to him."

Luff had enticed his captain to a longer walk than he expected; and no
sooner had they entered the Gap Lane than he began a quarrel, and
presently attacked him, sword in hand. Laud defended himself with great
dexterity, until his sword was broken, and he himself disarmed. He fled
towards the marshes, but was overtaken, cut down, and cast for dead into
one of those deep marsh ditches which abound in the neighbourhood of
Orford. After Luff had thus wreaked his vengeance, he crept stealthily
towards the town; and as he went picked up Laud's watch, which had
fallen from his pocket. It made his blood, already heated with exertion,
grow cold with conscious horror. He was too great a villain, however, to
have much thought of mercy, pity, or repentance. He entered the
Compasses and called for a strong north-wester, and inquired for his
men, and learned they had been gone to their boat some time. He gave
them some coarse malediction for their pains, and sat down to his
strong potation.

The two men were at that time crossing a plank over the very dyke which
Laud had been cast into, and were startled by his groans. On looking
about them they observed a man's head just out of the water, beside the
bank; they pulled him out, and found to their horror that it was Laud.
Having decided on taking him to his uncle's, they lifted Laud up and
carried him across the marshes, and laid him as carefully as they could
upon some old sails at the bottom of the boat; and instead of going down
the river to Hollesley Bay, they rowed directly up the river with the
flood tide. They arrived at Aldborough just as the tide turned, and had
the precaution or prudence, directly they landed, to send their boat
adrift; which, getting into the channel, was carried down the river, and
was cast upon a sand-bank, within a few yards of the smuggler's cutter,
by which means it was supposed that the two men had perished; for at
daybreak, when Luff came on board, he was the first to discover the
boat, keel upwards, upon the bank.

"It served them right," said the captain, "for leaving their commander
behind them."

They had safely conveyed Will Laud to the Jolly Tar, which then stood
close to the river's side. His uncle was sent for, who came, attended by
Mr. Nursey, at that time the skilful and highly esteemed surgeon of
Aldborough. He found him dreadfully wounded; but at length, by strict
attention and consummate skill, succeeded in effecting a cure. That
uncle had always loved his nephew, and in some measure considered
himself responsible for the waywardness of his seafaring propensities;
and he took him to his home, and treated him in every respect as a lost
son restored.

Here, then, was an opportunity--a golden opportunity--for reformation.
Laud's former character had been cancelled by his service in the British
navy; and his gallant conduct on the glorious 1st of June had obtained
for him a free discharge, with prize-money, and certificate of character
in the service. He was now placed in a situation calculated to restore
him to independence. In the years 1795 and 1796 he served his uncle
faithfully; and such were the hopes entertained of his steadiness and
attention to business, that at the end of that year, when his uncle
died, he left him all that he possessed.

It may seem strange that Laud should never have sought for Margaret
Catchpole during all this time, or that she should not have made further
inquiries about him. Had they met at this period, and come to a mutual
explanation, they might both have been spared from that misery and
remorse attendant upon a degraded character. But it was otherwise
decreed. He had always brooded over his imaginary wrongs at the hands of
Margaret; had learned to think little of her; and never to have forgiven
her for that unfortunate speech the night he left Ipswich. And when he
became a master and a man of substance (as above related), he did not
appear to be settled or happy. The news of Luff's death might have been
supposed to take away from him any hankering after the illicit pursuits
of his youth; but the escape of some of the crew, and their strong
attachment to Laud, induced him to listen to their proposals of service,
and to employ a ship in the trade; and he actually sent out smugglers,
though he would not head them himself; so that, very soon after the
decease of his uncle, Laud became deeply engaged again in the illicit
traffic of the coast.

But what was Margaret doing all this time? She returned to her uncle and
aunt Leader, and became their assistant. She undertook once more the
management of the children, and was instrumental in restoring order and
decency in the house. She did not feel quite so lively an interest in
this employment as she had formerly done, though her aunt's manner was a
complete contrast to what it had formerly been. By her uncle's advice,
she put the money she never considered her own into the hands of the
much-respected general shopkeeper of the parish, who placed it in the
bank, and became a trustee for her. Still she resolved not to touch it,
but to keep it, as the property of Laud, until she should be more sure
of his death. She had great hopes still that she should one day see him
again. She lived with her uncle and aunt, and made herself useful in
every possible way; nor did she ever murmur at her condition, though she
often sighed over past misfortunes.

In the month of May, 1797, she received a letter from old George Teager,
her fellow-servant, which ran thus:--

     "Margaret,

     "This comes hoping it may find you well, as it still leaves me,
     though very deaf. I have got a bit of news for you, which I know
     you will be glad to hear. I was going down the Wash yesterday, when
     who should I meet but Will Laud? He looked uncommon well, and was
     very civil to me. He asked me many questions about you; and I set
     him right about some bad splints and curbs he had got in his head.
     He told me he should soon manage to see you, so no more from old

                                        "George Teager.

     "Margaret's Green, May 3rd, 1797."

Imagine poor Margaret's anxiety. She waited seven days in such a state
of feverish suspense as only those so situated can feel. She rested
neither day nor night, but became each morning more anxiously disturbed,
until she determined to go herself to Ipswich.

Now Laud had been to Ipswich to purchase some timber, and to dispose of
some of his smuggled goods. He had met old Teager, the coachman, and had
treated him with a friendly glass, which the old man seldom refused. He
had also met an old messmate accidentally; a good-for-nothing fellow,
whom Luff had formerly made use of to deceive Margaret with false
reports concerning him. Laud had treated this man to some grog; and in
talking over old times, the man disclosed some of Luff's villainy, with
which Laud had never before been acquainted; especially his conduct to
Margaret on that wretched night in which Laud had sought an interview
with her. This fellow, whose name was John Cook, told him that he was
one of the sailors bribed to deceive her, and to go backwards and
forwards with false reports to the kitchen of St. Margaret's Green.

Laud now saw the reason for poor Margaret's exclamation, "I will have
nothing more to do with any sailors!" The truth broke on him with such
conviction, that he resolved to seek out his betrothed the very moment
he had fulfilled his engagement at Ipswich. It is a remarkable fact,
that, on the very same day on which Laud left the town with the full
determination to see and have an explanation with Margaret, she
determined to go to Ipswich, to explain (if she could find him) the
whole of her conduct. This was on the evening of the 9th of May, 1797.
She had frankly explained to her uncle the purpose of her journey; and
as to the money in the hands of the trustee, she said, "If a letter
comes to you, from me, about it, you can then consult with Mr. Smith
about its disposal. I fully expect," she added, "to meet Laud at
Ipswich, and whatever his fortunes may be, I am determined to share them
with him."

She arrived at Ipswich that afternoon, and took up her abode at her
former lodgings at the Widow Syers', a distant relative of her mother's,
though by no means a desirable person for Margaret to abide with at such
a time. She did not go, as she ought to have done, to her good mistress,
who would have instituted every inquiry for her; but she chose to pursue
her own course. She saw the old coachman, and learned from him that he
had seen Laud at the Salutation, in Carr Street, only the day before.
She did not stay to ask any more questions, but off she went towards
the public-house in question. On her way, it was her misfortune to meet
with that vagabond, John Cook, the very fellow who had so often made a
dupe of her before, and who was now the cause of her performing an act
that is probably without precedent in female history. Intent but upon
one thing, the obtaining an interview with her lover, the mainspring of
all her prospects in life, and the centre to which all her hopes,
wishes, thoughts, and cares were pointed, she was almost crazy with
anxiety to see this worthless object of her idolatry. She had been
betrayed into misfortunes by her blindness on this point; and though
careful, prudent, and considerate upon almost every other thing, she had
been, and was still, the easy victim of any artful machination which had
for its bait the sight of her lover. Had she consulted any of her
friends, Mr. Stebbing, Mr. Brooks, Mr. Notcutt, or her beloved mistress,
she would not have fallen a prey to the artful villainy of a wicked man;
but Margaret had forgotten at this time her mistress, and every other
consideration, except the all-engrossing subject which filled her heart;
and she saw neither danger nor difficulty, right nor wrong, but was
ready to go anywhere, or to do anything, provided she could only have an
explanation with Laud.

"Why, Margaret, is that you?" said John Cook as he met her, turning the
corner of the Chaise and Pair, on the evening of the 9th of May; "why,
where have you been all these livelong days? And what are you doing now
in Ipswich?"

"I am in search of Laud: have you seen or heard anything of him to-day?"

"Yes, that I have; you are in luck to meet with the only person in the
world who could tell you where he is! But this is not the place to be
talking secrets. Come with me to the Marquis Cornwallis, where Laud and
I have spent a merry time, and I will tell you all about him."

There was no difficulty in persuading her to accompany him, and on
arriving at the inn, Margaret found by this fellow's conversation with
the landlord, that Laud and he had spent the previous evening at that
house. This confirmed her belief in his story, and enabled him to make
her the easy dupe of all the vile inventions which were to follow.

They requested that they might have the parlour to themselves; and the
ever-liberal Margaret ordered some refreshment, though she could, from
her anxiety, partake of nothing herself.

"Well, I promised you I would tell you all about Laud; but first let me
tell you that I set him right about your ugly speech that night when you
got such a ducking."

"Did you? did you, indeed? What did he say to it? Did he forgive me?"

"Did he? Aye! I'll tell you what, I never saw a fellow so dumb-foundered
before. He looked almost like a madman, cursed his stars, and swore they
were all confederate against him. He swore you were the best creature in
the world, and if he could but see you, he would make you happy."

"Oh, John! how good you were to tell him! But where is he? Is he in
Ipswich? Do bring me to him?"

"Hold hard a bit; I must let you into a little bit of a secret. You must
know that Laud and I are upon such intimate terms, that we communicate
by a kind of expression known only to ourselves. He, as you know, went
back to smuggling again after your rap, though that was not intentional
on your part. He did not go to sea, but entered upon the timber trade,
though he employed about twenty men under him to carry on his traffic.
Now I know he would have gone in search of your hiding-place, if he had
not been compelled to hide himself. The fact is, he is escaped from an
arrest for five hundred pounds which he was bound to pay to the Excise,
and but for a very lucky turn he would have been nabbed last night."

"Well, but where is he now?"

"I will tell you where he may be found to-morrow. All I know now is,
that he took the mail last night, by the greatest good luck in the
world, and went off to London. He is to write to me to-night, and I
shall be able to tell you to-morrow."

That this was all a mere invention of this rascal's, to get out of
Margaret all he could, the reader will easily believe. Lucky was it for
her that she did not tell him what sum of money she had belonging to
Laud, or every farthing of it would have gone into this fellow's hands.
As it was, he managed to get out of her what little cash she could
spare, under the promise of revealing to her the hiding-place of Laud.
After chatting with him a long time, and hearing much of herself and her
lover, all pure inventions of this fellow's brain, and easily detected
by any person with less blindness upon the subject, Margaret took her
leave of him, giving him half-a-crown to spend. She returned to the
Widow Syers', and, as might be supposed, passed a feverish night,
restless with nervous anxiety. Poor girl! she little thought of the
mischief then brooding for her ruin.

The morrow came, bringing a letter to John Cook, of a very different
description to that which Margaret anticipated. It ran thus:--

                            "Dog and Bone, Lambeth,
                                             "May 8th, 1797.

     "Jack,

     "I sold the bay mare at Smithfield yesterday. I might ha' got more,
     but the nabs were about; so I wopt her off for ten. Old Snacks, at
     the Bone here, got his 'centage. I crabbed the old chap as well as
     I could; but he's up to snuff. You wouldn't ha' known old Peggy
     again. We blacked her white legs and popt a white face on to her,
     gave her a rat's tail, filed her teeth, and burnt her mark, and wop
     me if I mightent ha' sold her for a six-year old, if I hadn't been
     in a hurry. But she's off, they tell me, to serve in a foreign
     country. She's a right good un, though an old'n. All's honour
     bright, Jack!

     "I say, old boy, we talked o' the brown nag; can ye send him up to
     Chelmsford? or if to the Dog and Bone, direct to your old chum,

                                           "Bob Bush,
                                                   "Sam Snacks,
                                             "Dog and Bone, Lambeth.

     "To John Cook,
     "Marquis Cornwallis,
     "Ipswich, Suffolk."

This letter, which was found some days later at the inn, and delivered
up to the constable of the parish of St. Margaret's, may serve to show
the connexion which this fellow had with a gang of horse-stealers, who,
at this time, infested the counties of Essex, Norfolk, and Suffolk. The
brown nag here mentioned was one which had been turned off in the
pastures of St. Margaret's, belonging to John Cobbold, Esq. He was a
high-spirited little horse, and aged. The eyes of this rogue had been
upon him, and a most diabolical project now entered his brain, of making
Margaret Catchpole, whose early feats of riding were not unknown to him,
the minister of this theft.

"I shall make something out of her now," said the fellow, "if I can only
play upon her feelings. How shall I do it?"

A thought struck him that he would tear off the half of the letter
containing the post-mark, and paste one which he would invent, on that
half, and sign it for Will Laud. Margaret knew little or nothing of
Will's handwriting, so that she could easily be deceived in this
respect; and if she knew that it was not his, the fellow was ready
enough to swear that he had hurt his hand by the falling of a spar, and
so got a friend to write it for him. He put his wits to work, and
concocted an epistle as nearly pertinent to what he had made out Laud's
case to be, as he could.

He dated it from the same place from whence he received his own, and
intended to write to Bob Bush to take the horse off Margaret's hands,
if he could get her on to it. He wrote thus:--

              "Dog and Bone, Lambeth, May 9th, 1797.
     "Dear Jack,

     "Hurrah, my boy! Safely anchored, though I had cut my cable, and
     run; but I have got into a friendly port, and my pursuers shan't
     easily find me. Precious hard, though, Jack, after just finding out
     my girl, to have to tack and leave her. You might lend a hand now,
     just to serve an old friend. Margaret would make my present dull
     time a little lighter, if you could but find her up, and put her on
     the right road to find me. I think she would forgive me, if you
     could explain matters a little to her. Tell her we could get
     married here, and after a time all would be well. But, Jack, mum
     must be the order of the day. Don't you fire a volley at me until
     she's off to London. She must come incog, Jack; aye, in man's
     clothes, if she can: you know why. A thought strikes me, which if
     you put it into her head, will just suit her, and me too. Persuade
     her to borrow the old pony of her master's, from the pasture on the
     Woodbridge road, or to take it with French leave. It is worth
     nothing, and will never be inquired after; and if disposed of, will
     scarcely be missed. And if she was found out, it would only be
     treated as a good spree! So, Jack, try her; she has a spirit equal
     to the work, and we shall then be no more parted. Now, do this for

                                "Your old friend,
                                        "Will Laud."

Margaret read this letter with mingled feelings of pain and pleasure,
but she implicitly believed every word of it, yet she did not like
Laud's plan. "Why not go and borrow the horse of old Teager," said she,
"if it must be so? I know he will lend it to me."

"What, and tell him you want his stable-dress to ride to London in? Fine
fun he'd make of it, would he not? No, no, Margaret, that will never
do. We must take it with French leave, or let it alone."

"I wish I could see him by some other means. I do not like his plan; and
yet, perhaps, he has none other to offer," said Margaret, as if
pondering within herself.

"I can tell you he is not the man to offer it if he has," said Cook.
"Once put him off again, and it will be long enough before you ever see
or hear of him again."

Margaret felt that such would be the case, and yielded to the artful
duplicity of this wicked man, and agreed to meet him the next night to
put their wild plan in practice. But as heaven willed that she should
have one more chance of escape from the evil which threatened her, the
excitement which she suffered brought on an attack of fever that very
night, and she was laid up for many days. The warning, however, was in
vain; and so soon as she recovered, she agreed to put their plan in
execution.

It was on the 23rd of May that Margaret met John Cook at the place
before appointed, having previously bought herself a hat and a pair of
boots. But now a new obstacle presented itself, which, like the one just
alluded to, might have served as a warning, had any religious feelings
found place in Margaret's mind and heart. They went into the meadow, and
for more than an hour tried to catch the horse. But it was all in vain;
he would be caught by nobody but old Teager.

What was to be done now?

"This is a turn I did not bargain for," said John Cook, "and I have
written to Laud to say you will be, without fail, at the place I shall
tell you of when you are once mounted. A horse we came for, and a horse
we will have, for I would not disappoint the captain for a hundred
horses; so follow me, Margaret."

The girl hesitated, and inquired what it was he proposed to do.

"Not many yards off, in yonder stable, there are two noble horses that
are worth riding; you shall take one of them."

"Do you mean the carriage-horses? I dare not ride one of them."

"Nonsense, girl! If you don't come along and just do as I bid you, hang
me if I don't write to Laud, and tell him you don't care anything about
him. Come along! I must help you over the low wall against the end of
the garden. Come along! You have fairly begun the work; don't give it
up."

Margaret never wanted courage until that moment, and then she followed,
trembling from head to foot.

The fellow got on to the wall and assisted her up and down. He then went
across the lawn to the stable-yard with the trembling Margaret at his
heels; they found the stable-door locked; but the wicket at the side, by
the muck-bin, was unhanked and stood ajar. Margaret got into the stable
through this place, and slipped back the bolt of the stable-door; the
horses had been accustomed to her coming into the stable for straw for
her fire, and she had often spoke to them and patted them, so that her
voice now, as she said, "Whoho, Crop!" and "Gently, Rochford!" was
familiar to them; and they did not rise up until John Cook entered and
began to strike a light.

"Now, Margaret, pull the litter down toward the stable-door, whilst I
just look into the harness-house."

Rochford, a fiery grey horse which Mr. Cobbold had lately purchased from
Lord Rochford, at Easton, rose up and snorted, and clanked his chains so
terribly, that Margaret expected every moment that old George who slept
over the stable, would present himself; but the old man was deaf, and
heavy in his sleep, and had only returned from Mrs. Proby's, of
Stratford, late that evening, and had not been in bed above an hour, so
that he was in his first sound sleep.

"Margaret, you must take this lantern, and just move the dark part
round, and it will show you where the old boy's stable-dress is; go up
the stairs carefully, and bring it down with you."

Margaret did so. She went with breathless step to the bedside of the
coachman. His stable dress was upon the floor; she took it up gently,
and as cautiously receded with it down to the stable again, closing the
door without noise.

"So far so good, Margaret. Now, do you dress yourself there in the empty
stall, while I saddle and bridle the further horse."

This, however, was more than John Cook could do, for Rochford was of
such a spirit, and sent out at him with such vengeance that he dared not
go up to him; nor could he without Margaret's help put the saddle or
bridle on to Crop. She dressed herself as quickly as she could in the
coachman's stable-dress; he being a little fellow, and Margaret rather
tall, they only hung about her a little loosely, but were not too long
for her. When she came from the stall, after rolling her own things in a
bundle, and putting them into the very bottom of the seed-box, under the
manger, and covering them with hay, she looked exactly like a young
groom. She went up to the Crop horse and patted him on the neck, whilst
her companion saddled and bridled him; she then tied some straw round
his feet, so that no noise should be made in the stable-yard, and out
the gallant fellow was led, ready for such a journey and for such a
rider as never before had mounted his back.

"Now my girl," exclaimed Cook, "screw up your courage to the start! Come
into the meadow. I can let you out on to the Woodbridge road, and then
off with you."

"But where am I to find him? You have not told me that," exclaimed
Margaret.

"Mount! and I will tell you."

Margaret, with his aid, was soon in the saddle, and once there, she felt
her own command over her steed.

"Now Margaret," he replied, "mind what I say: you must sell that horse
if you can, at Chelmsford market to-morrow morning; if not, you must
ride on to the Bull, in Aldgate, London; but if you regard your own and
your lover's safety, you will sell the horse first, and then find your
way to the Dog and Bone public-house, at Lambeth; there you will find
Will Laud expecting you. Sell the horse for all you can get; say he is
worth a hundred guineas, and that your master, Squire John Cook, sent
you up to sell him."

The horse was a strawberry roan colour, remarkable for his action and
the spirit with which he went through a journey. His ears were short
enough, for, in accordance with a barbarous practice of that day, they
were cropped; few that ever knew the horse could forget him; in harness
he carried himself as proudly as if he had been trained to exhibit his
beauty, but this was his constant habit; his spirit was such, that he
was never touched with a whip, and never exhibited the least disposition
to restiveness; free, easy, gentle, noble, swift, untiring, graceful,
and grand--he was admired wherever he went; and the short coachman, who
occasionally used to ride him, made him, a sixteen-hand horse, look at
least a hand higher. What an object was Margaret Catchpole upon him! Her
spirit was up as well as Crop's; her resolution to go through all she
had undertaken was fixed, and in reply to John Cook's question, when
they came to the paddock-gate, "Are you ready, Margaret?" she replied,
"Quite ready!"

"And now, off with you," said the fellow, as he opened the gate.
"Remember the 'Dog and Bone.' A hundred guineas for the horse, and you
will be a happy woman;" and off started poor Margaret at a sweeping pace
for the London road.

St. Margaret's clock struck one, just as she passed the front of that
house in which she had lived so much respected, and in which,
unconscious of her guilt, slept the kindest master and mistress that a
servant ever knew.

But Margaret rode on, reckless of all the ills that might await her, and
thinking only of the lover that she was to meet at the end of her mad
journey.

The guard of the mail-coach observed to the driver of the Ipswich mail,
as Margaret met it, about two miles before she reached Colchester,
"That's Mr. Cobbold's Crop horse! There must be something the matter in
the family by the pace the groom is going. Did you see the fellow's
stable-dress up to his knees? There's something amiss, or the horse is
stolen."

When he came to Ipswich, the man mentioned the circumstance at the
coach-office, and said he was positive something was wrong.

Mr. Bailey, the postmaster, immediately sent a messenger with a note, to
inform Mr. Cobbold that the guard had met some one riding his horse very
fast on the London road.

It was five o'clock when the man rang loudly at the porch-bell; the
footman came down in a great hurry and carried up the note to his
master's room, who quickly ordered him to go to the stable and see if
George Teager and the horses were safe. He ran to the stable, and true
enough, he found the Crop horse gone. He called out to George, whom, at
first, he suspected of having gone off with the horse, "Hullo, George;
Crop is gone!"

The old man jumped up. "What's the matter? Who calls?"

"One of the horses is stolen, George; you must come down immediately; it
was met two miles this side of Colchester!"

"Come, come, Tom, none o' your tricks! this is only some of your
nonsense: can't ye let an old fellow rest in his bed without playing off
your boy's tricks? what have you done with my stable dress?"

This made Thomas bolt upstairs.

"I know nothing of your stable-dress; I tell you master will be here in
a minute: on with your livery. I'll be whipped if somebody has not
stolen the fustians! Come, old boy, this is no fun, it's as true as you
are staring there; so up with you."

George found by his companion's earnest manner that he spoke the truth,
and putting on his livery he came down; he was, as many a man at his age
and in his situation would be, much bewildered. He ascertained, however,
that the thief had taken his master's new saddle and bridle, and a
small stick of his own. He observed that it must have been an old
practitioner, by the straw being littered down to the door, and pointed
out to Thomas that the horse's hoofs had been covered with straw to
prevent them clattering on the pavement of the yard. His master soon
came down and easily tracked the horse to the paddock gate. Of course
all the family were roused. "Go directly, George, up to Mr. Spink's, the
dealer's, who got this horse for me, and knows him as well as you do,
and order a post-chaise from the Lion, and bring Mr. Spink here. You
must both of you pursue the thief, even to London. Be as quick as you
can."

In the meantime a handbill was written and sent to Mr. Jackson's, of the
_County Press_, with a request that copies might be struck off
immediately, in time for the nine o'clock coaches to London. It was to
this effect:--

                       "TWENTY GUINEAS REWARD.

     "Whereas, last night, or this morning, May 24th, a fine strawberry
     roan grey gelding was stolen out of the stable of John Cobbold,
     Esq., of St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich, together with a new saddle
     and bridle, and the coachman's stable-dress. Whoever shall give
     information of the robber, so as to lead to the recovery of the
     horse, or the conviction of the offender, shall receive the above
     reward at the hands of the owner.

     "N.B. The horse is sixteen hands high, has cropped ears, is six
     years old, has a cut tail, and is very strong and very fast.

     "Ipswich, May 24th, 1797."

This was struck off as soon as possible, and circulated over the town
and through the country, by every vehicle leaving the town.

It was about seven o'clock when old Teager and Mr. Spink left Ipswich
for Colchester, so that Margaret had some hours' start of her pursuers.
As they went on they heard at every toll-gate of a young man having
gone through on just the description of horse given, so that it was a
warm scent before them.

When they arrived at Chelmsford, through a misdirection of some person,
they were told that the same horse was seen going on to Maldon, in the
hundreds of Essex; and they had just given the post-boy orders to turn
off the London road in pursuit, as Mr. Alston, of Diss, rode into the
yard of the Black Boy as the pursuers were in the act of getting into
the chaise.

"Pray, sir, may I be so bold as to ask if you came far along the London
road?"

"I left town this morning, and am now on my journey to Manningtree. Why
do you ask?"

"Because I am in pursuit of a thief. You did not chance to meet a man
riding a strawberry roan carriage-horse?"

"Yes, I did; and remarked at the time that I thought it was the finest
shaped horse I had ever seen. He was a crop, with high action and bold
crest."

"It is the very horse! Whereabouts might you meet him, sir?"

"I met him I should say about five miles on the other side of Romford,
near to Ilford. It was about nine o'clock. I remarked to myself, what a
fool the lad must be who was riding him, that he did not manage to
fasten his overalls down at his ankles, as I could see his stockings up
to his knees. Some gentleman I thought was sending him into livery
stables."

"We are greatly obliged to you, sir. On, boy, on!" and the post-chaise
dashed out of the yard.

But for the accidental meeting of Mr. Alston it is very probable
Margaret would have escaped; but the information thus given put the
pursuers on the right scent, just in the right time.

Meantime let us accompany Margaret on her perilous expedition. She had
actually ridden the horse from Ipswich to London in the space of eight
hours and a half; it being seventy miles from that place to the Bull, in
Aldgate. She only stopped once on the road, at a small public-house,
called the Trowel and Hammer, at Marks Tey, in Essex; here she gave her
gallant horse a feed of corn, and had a glass of brandy and water and a
biscuit. It was just five o'clock when she baited. She dared not to
offer the horse for sale at Chelmsford for fear of detection, at such an
early hour. She felt persuaded that a pursuit would be made, and hoped
to hide herself in the metropolis before her pursuers could reach her.
Accordingly she allowed the horse no more time than was sufficient for
him to finish his corn, and off she went again for nearly five hours'
further ride. As she approached town many were the eyes directed towards
her, both on account of the remarkable character of the horse, and the
singular appearance of the rider. Margaret took no notice of any one,
but pushed on her willing steed with the same indifference as if she had
been sent upon an errand of only a few miles; nor was the horse
apparently fatigued in the least when they arrived at the Bull Inn,
which they did about half-past nine o'clock.

She rode quietly down the yard, called for the ostler, dismounted, shook
her trousers down, and addressed the man in as off-hand a manner as if
she were a real groom.

"Rub that horse down well, and get him cool and comfortable; give him a
sup of water and a mouthful of hay, and I will come and see him fed."

"Have you rode far, young man?" asked the ostler.

"Not a very great way. I came out of Chelmsford this morning. See and
rub his ears dry, ostler. You must make him look as well as you can, for
I expect my master up in town to-night; and if I don't meet with a
customer for that horse he'll blow me up."

"He's a very fine horse; and if as good as he looks, would be worth any
man's money."

"He's better than he looks, ostler: and 'tisn't any man's money that
will buy him. He must give a good price for him, whoever buys him. But
look well after him. I must go and get a bait myself."

She went into the bar, ordered her breakfast, took up the newspaper,
and with all the airs of a consequential young jockey sat down to the
perusal of it. After taking some refreshment she got up to see her horse
fed.

The ostler, finding so fine a horse was for sale, apprised a
livery-stable-keeper of his acquaintance, who on hearing his
representation hastened to look at him. Margaret was called out; the
animal exhibited; under-valued by the dealer in the style so
characteristic of such gentry; and his good qualifications well vouched
for by the young groom.

"Did you ever see a better shape?" exclaimed Margaret. "Look at his
fore-end; there's a crest, there's a shoulder, there's a head! Look at
his legs, as straight and clean as a colt's; and as for quarters, where
will you find such for strength and beauty? He's six-year old next
grass; has never done any hard work before this day; and you won't find
a puff as big as a pea in any of his sinews. Quiet to ride or drive, and
without a fault. Now, what's the matter with him?"

This was such a poser to the dealer that he could only reply by asking,
"Can I have a warranty with him?"

"To be sure you can," said Margaret. "You may have a written one from
me; or, if you like better to deal with my master, you may wait till he
comes up, and then he'll give you a character, and perhaps you'll make a
better bargain with him than you will with me."

"Are you authorized to sell the horse?"

"To be sure I am, or else I should not stand here to talk with you about
him."

"Who does he belong to, young man?"

"He belongs to my master, Mr. Cook, of Ipswich, in Suffolk."

"What do you want for him?"

"One hundred guineas."

"May I take him for a trial?"

"Yes; when you have bought and paid for him. He is not to go out of my
sight until I receive the money for him, or deliver the horse himself
into my master's charge."

"I should like to see him down our ride; I could better judge of his
paces."

"Clap the saddle on him. I will ride him where you like; or I will let
you drive me with him; but I do not trust any one else with him whilst
he is in my care."

The saddle and bridle were put on, and Crop came out of the stable free,
and ready to trot back again to Ipswich if his rider was so disposed. He
was as fresh and joyous as a lark, and sprang up into the air with
almost as light a heart. Margaret mounted awkwardly; put her foot into
the stirrup the wrong way; and perceiving that this was noticed, she
crossed the stirrups over the saddle in front of her, saying,

"My master always makes me ride without stirrups, and I like it best."

In truth she sat the horse better without them; and had she had no
saddle, it would have suited her even better still; but this seemed to
have the desired effect.

The dealer, however, entertained some suspicions from the awkward manner
of the groom, and having already suffered for purchasing a stolen horse,
he was more on his guard than he otherwise might have been.

They went out of the stable-yard together, and reached the ride
belonging to the dealer, and Margaret turned her horse in as she was
directed. The stable lads peeped out to see what kind of nag their
master was buying, and were not satisfied with a glance, but looked with
much admiration at him.

"Just trot him down the ride, young man."

Margaret dashed down the yard and back again.

"Soho! my fine fellow! Peter," he said to his head man, "just come and
look at this nag."

Peter stepped forward, and gave his master a knowing look, as much as to
say, "Am I to decry him?"

"Look at his mouth!"

Peter did so.

"How is it, Peter?"

"All right, sir."

"What's his age?"

"Rising six."

"What do you say to him?"

Peter looked at every point, then scratched his head, and again looked
at his master; but he received no sign to manoeuvre; so he replied,
"Why, master, if you ask for truth you shall have it. He's a right good
one; that is it."

"Well, young man, now what is the lowest price you will take?"

"I told you his price when you asked me before. You don't expect me to
lower the price of my own horse without a bid! What do you say you will
give?"

"Why, I don't know! He's not every man's horse! Not easily matched; and
not suited for a town horse; but I'll bid you fifty guineas for him."

"Thank you for your bid, sir; but you must come nigh to double that
before you'll buy."

"Will you take sixty for him?"

"No; I will not."

"Will you take seventy? Come now, I'll give you seventy. You may go a
long way before you'll get such another offer. Say, will you take it?"

"Add another ten to it and it shall be a bargain. I will take eighty."

"Just walk him down again. Peter, what do you think of him?"

"He's worth the money; that's what I say. Buy him, master."

"Well, young man, I'll take the horse; but you must give me a written
warranty with him."

"That I'll do; but perhaps you'll not like to conclude the bargain
without master's warranty; if so, we had better not exactly conclude the
price."

This so took the dealer aback, that it drove away all suspicions, and he
said, "No, no; your warranty will do. I'll give you the money." He was
in the act of going to the gateway as he saw one of his men come into
the yard, with a paper in his hand, which proved to be one of the
identical hand-bills, offering a reward of twenty guineas for the very
horse he had just bought. "Peter," he called out, "tell the young man
just to walk that horse once more up the yard, and come you here."

He showed Peter the bill, who said: "It's the very horse!"

"Go you and fetch a constable; I'll keep him in play a bit until he
comes."

"He's a charming shaped horse, young man. I'd just a mind to ask you if
you'd throw the saddle and bridle into the bargain."

"Why, master told me I might sell that if I pleased, and if I sold well,
that should be my perquisite."

"I see 'tis a country-made saddle; but it looks pretty good. What will
you have for it?"

"Four guineas for both. Come, I have let you take the horse at much less
than he is worth; you can afford to give me a fair price for the saddle
and bridle, which are, you see, quite new."

By this time Peter returned with the constable; but Margaret was joking
about the saddle and bridle, and greatly rejoicing at her success, not
the least conscious of the presence of the man of the law, or of the
dreadful fate which awaited her.

"Did you say that horse came from Ipswich, young man?" said the dealer.

"I did," said she.

"When did he leave Ipswich?"

"Yesterday."

"Did you leave with him?"

"Yes, I did; I told you so."

"No, you didn't; you told me you rode him from Chelmsford."

"So I did; and from Ipswich too."

"What was your master's name?"

"Mr. John Cook," said Margaret, who now began to feel a little uneasy.

"Are you sure it was not Mr. John Cobbold? Look at that hand-bill, young
man."

Margaret saw only her master's name, and all her fortitude forsook her;
she swooned away in a moment, and would have fallen from the horse, had
not the constable caught her by her jacket as she was falling; and in
endeavouring to support her off the horse the jacket flew open, and to
the astonishment of all around, lo, and behold, it was a woman!

Margaret was taken into custody; and such a hubbub was created in the
neighbourhood, that the story of a female horse-stealer was soon spread
abroad, and people began to crowd into the yard. Among the multitude was
a son-in-law of Mr. Cobbold's, who happened to be in town at the time,
and identified both the horse and his rider. It was not long before the
coachman and Mr. Spink made their appearance, and she was taken before a
magistrate, and immediately committed to Newgate, until further evidence
could be produced.




CHAPTER XXII

PREPARATION FOR TRIAL


Margaret Catchpole was taken into custody; and whilst she was spending a
dismal night in the dungeon, a letter was on the road to Ipswich, to
inform her master of the capture of the thief.

The wretched young woman had now time for rest and reflection. Instead
of meeting her lover, for which purpose alone she had undertaken her
desperate enterprise, she had now before her eyes the terrors of the
law, the certainty of conviction, the probability of a violent and
shameful death. Who knew anything of the cause which had induced her to
steal the horse, and who would pity her if they did? The secret was
known only to herself, and she resolved it should continue so, lest her
lover should be involved in the consequences of her guilt.

It will readily be believed that the news of what had happened created
no small sensation in the minds of the various members of that family
who had so dearly loved the miserable culprit.

It was immediately arranged that both Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold should go to
town, and they arrived about nine o'clock in the evening at the Four
Swans, Bishopsgate Street.

At the time fixed for the examination of the prisoner before the
magistrates, Mr. and Mrs. Cobbold arrived at the Police-office in
Whitechapel.

Many gentlemen were present, who having heard the case mentioned, had
obtained permission to attend.

The office was crowded, and the street also, for it was understood that
Margaret was to be brought up for examination. Hundreds who knew nothing
of the parties, but only that a female had stolen a horse, were
assembled purely from curiosity to see such a person.

Margaret was brought up in proper custody, and found herself the object
of jokes and gibes amidst the thoughtless rabble of the streets. She was
conducted into an ante-room adjoining the court, and as a door opened
into the passage from the magistrates' private room, she thought she
heard her mistress's voice. Another moment convinced her that she saw
her. It was to her a moment of great bitterness and agony.

At the request of the prosecutor, she was summoned into the magistrates'
private room, before going into the public court. She was terrified
beyond measure at the idea of encountering the sight of her mistress.
She begged hard not to be taken into her presence, but she was compelled
to go in. The moment she saw her she exclaimed: "Oh, my dear mistress!"
and fell to the ground. She was lifted up and placed in a chair; and
from her dreadful state of agitation, it was agreed among the
magistrates that, upon her recovery, her deposition should be taken
where she then was. Accordingly, the clerk was summoned from the public
office into the private room.

Her mistress as well as herself was greatly affected at the interview,
and deeply touched at her distress. All the gentlemen present felt more
than commonly interested in the scene.

The girl slowly revived; the gentlemen took their seats, and the clerk
was ordered to take down her deposition. The magistrate told her that
the confession she had made, and might now make, would be evidence
against her on her trial, and that she was at liberty to speak, or not,
as she pleased.

Having implored and obtained forgiveness from her master and mistress,
Margaret became more composed, and made a full confession of her guilt.
She acknowledged that she had been persuaded, and even compelled, to
this act by a man named John Cook, a sailor at Ipswich, and declared
that she stole the horse by his direction and threats; that she was to
have sold it at Chelmsford, but that she dared not offer it there. She
did not once betray her lover's name, or mention anything about his
hiding-place; but she described all the particulars of the robbery with
which the reader is acquainted, and stated, as a corroborative fact,
that her own clothes would be found, if not already removed, under the
manger of the empty stall.

Her deposition having been then read over to her by the clerk, she
signed her name to it. Before they parted, Mrs. Cobbold spoke to her
consolingly, while she placed before her mind the heinousness of her
offence. Poor Margaret felt better after this, and with a heart very
much humbled, was committed to Newgate by N. Bond, Esq., with an order
for her removal as soon as the forms could be gone through, to the gaol
of the county in which the offence was committed. Mr. Cobbold was bound
over to prosecute, which being done, that gentleman and his lady
returned to their hotel.

Every effort was made to discover the resort of John Cook; but that
scamp, the moment he heard of the capture, decamped, nor was he ever
after heard of. He was well known; and the landlord of the Marquis
Cornwallis testified to Margaret's having been at his house with the
man, as also his being at the same place with Captain Laud, as he was
called, the evening before. But what became of him no one ever knew. The
half of a letter from his companion in London was found at the inn, and
was adduced to show his connexion with a gang of horse-stealers; but
this only served to tell against poor Margaret on her trial.

Margaret was removed to Ipswich by _habeas corpus_, July 6th, 1797, and
Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler, informed her mistress of her arrival.

On the evening of the day Margaret arrived at Ipswich, she wrote the
following letter to her mistress. It has been already stated that she
had been taught to read and write, and keep accounts, by Mrs. Cobbold,
when she superintended the education of her family; and the results of
this teaching, as exemplified in the touching epistles which we shall
hereafter present to the reader, will doubtless be received with
singular interest, copied as they are from the original documents, which
are carefully preserved in the family. The following is the first she
ever wrote:--

                                    "Ipswich, Thursday, July 6th, 1797.
     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "Your wretched servant has this evening arrived at the county gaol.
     Hope induced me to look forward to an earlier abode near you, that
     I might have the consolation of your instruction and advice. Oh! my
     honoured lady, when I look upon that dear spot in which you live,
     and see those green fields before your house, in which I used to
     walk and play with your dear children, I think the more deeply of
     the gloom of my felon's chamber, from which I can even at this
     moment behold them. They recall to my mind those happy hours in
     which I enjoyed your approbation and respect. How wretched do I now
     feel! Oh! what have I not lost!

     "I am come to Ipswich to take my trial, and am already condemned
     by my own conscience more severely than any judge can condemn me.
     But yours must be the task to teach me how to escape, not the
     condemnation of the judge, but of my own heart. Oh, my dear lady!
     do come and see me! Many people were kind to me at Newgate, and
     many persons contributed to my necessities; some indeed flattered
     me, and called me a brave girl for my recent act, which they termed
     clever and courageous. But if they were so, dear lady, why should I
     now feel so much fear? I thought them poor consolers, and not half
     such sincere friends as those who told me, as you did, the
     greatness of my offence, and the probable extent of ultimate
     punishment.

     "Honoured madam, would you let a messenger go to my dear father and
     tell him where I am, and how much I desire to see him? I fear you
     will think me very bold and troublesome, but I know your kind heart
     will make allowances for my troubled mind. I should like to see my
     Uncle Leader. But I should, first of all, like to see you, my dear
     lady. Perhaps it will not be long before I shall see you no more. I
     wish to make up my mind to the worst, but I am at times dreadfully
     troubled. I feel it so hard to be suddenly torn away from every
     earthly bond, and some on earth I do so dearly love; and none more
     deserves that love than you do. Pray come to me; and ever believe
     me

                            "Your grateful, though
                                "Most wretched servant,
                                    "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

"P.S.--Mr. Ripshaw has promised to send you this letter this evening. He
tells me you have often inquired for me."

The chaplain of the gaol was a friend of Mrs. Cobbold's; she wrote a
note to him requesting him to accompany her at any hour most convenient
to himself, to see her poor servant. At eleven o'clock the next day, the
interview took place between the wretched culprit and this truly
Christian lady. She spent some hours with that disconsolate being, whose
whole thoughts seemed to be directed with bitter agony to days of past
happiness. For though she had endured much mortification in early life,
she had experienced the comfort and consolation of a true and
disinterested friend and benefactress in the person of that kind
mistress, and her naturally intelligent mind had duly appreciated these
benefits.

These visits were repeated many times, and with the most beneficial
effects on the mind of the culprit. Her present anguish was the keener,
because her sensibilities were all so acutely alive to the memory of the
past. It was her mistress's endeavour not to suffer her to be deceived
with any false hopes. She was well aware that the penalty of her crime
was death, and that unless her instigating accomplice could be delivered
up to justice, she stood every chance of being made a public example, on
account of the great frequency of the crime. To such an extent had
horse-stealing been carried on in the counties of Suffolk and Essex,
that scarce a week passed without rewards being offered for the
apprehension of the thieves.

Margaret's interviews with her father and brother were still more deeply
affecting: but to them and to her beloved mistress alone did she make
known the real circumstances, attending her stealing the horse. She did
not attempt, however, to defend the act, nor would she admit that
another's influence was any exculpation of her offence. Mr. Stebbing,
the surgeon of the gaol, who had been her first friend in Ipswich, was
very kind to her, as was likewise his benevolent daughter, who lent her
many useful books. But the being she most wished to see, and from whose
memory she had never thought she could have been displaced, came not
near her in her adversity. William Laud had been at Nacton, to see her
father and brother. The report of her confession had reached him--he had
seen it in the newspapers; and it altered all his views and intentions
respecting her; so that the very act which she had done in the hope of
strengthening his attachment to her, was the direct cause of his
deserting her. In fact, he believed that she had committed the act from
an attachment to somebody else, and he gave up all idea of her for the
future.

But Margaret was still true to _him_. In one of her interviews with Mrs.
Cobbold, that kind and good lady, referring to the fact of Laud's not
coming near her in her adversity, said earnestly--

"You must endeavour to think less of him, Margaret."

"It is hard, madam," was the reply, "for flesh and blood not to think of
one who has been in one's thoughts so many years of one's life. In happy
as well as miserable hours, I have thought of him, madam, and have
always hoped for the best. He is still in all my prayers!"

"Your hopes of him, Margaret, must now be at an end. It would have been
happier for you, if they ended when you lived with me."

"Perhaps so, good lady; perhaps so. Or even earlier. I think now of my
poor sister Susan's last words: 'Margaret, you will never marry William
Laud.' I had hoped that these words were only the fears of the moment;
but, alas! I perceive they will prove too true!"

The only diversion of Margaret's mind at this period, from a fixed and
undivided attention to heavenly things, was the one hope of seeing Laud.
She clung with tenacity to this, as a sort of last farewell to all
things in the world. She said, that had she but one interview with him,
she should then have no other wish but to die.

Time flew fast, and the day of her trial approached. She was to depart
for Bury, where the assizes were held, early on the morning of the 9th
of August; and, on the preceding day, she wrote the following letter to
her mistress:--

                                      "IPSWICH GAOL, August 8th, 1797.
     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "By the time you read this, which I expect will be at your happy
     breakfast-table to-morrow morning, your poor servant will be at
     Bury, awaiting the awful moment of her condemnation. I could not
     leave this place, however, without pouring out my heart to you, my
     dear and honoured lady; thanking you for your great kindness and
     Christian charity to my poor soul. I have confessed my guilt to God
     and man, and I go to my trial with the same determination to plead
     guilty before both.

     "Honoured madam, I am told that the judge will call upon me to know
     if I have anybody in court to speak to my character. Now, though I
     cannot hope, and indeed would not urge you to be present in court,
     considering the state you are now in,[9] yet you have spoken well
     of me in private, and I know you would never fear to speak publicly
     that which you have said of me in private. Perhaps a line from you
     would do that which I want. You well know, my dear madam, that it
     is not from any hope of its obtaining a pardon for me that I ask
     it; but it is from the hope that one, whom I shall never see again,
     may by some means catch a sight of it; and may think better of me
     than the world at large, who know nothing of me, can do. Pardon
     this weakness.

     "Think not that I have any hope of mercy or pardon here. You have
     taught me how to hope for both hereafter. You have shown me much
     mercy and pity here, and the Lord reward you and my dear master for
     your unmerited compassion to your wretched servant! You have
     fortified my mind with the riches of consolation in that religion
     which I hope will be poured with tenfold increase into your own
     heart, and give you that peace you are so anxious I should possess.
     It grieves me to see my fellow-prisoners so unprepared for the fate
     which awaits them. Oh, that they had such friends as I have had!
     Oh, that they had been partakers of the same consolation as myself!
     And now, dearest lady, I have only to request your mention of me in
     your prayers. Bless you, my dear madam! God bless you and your dear
     children, and may they live to be a blessing to your old age! Give
     my kind thanks to all those friends who may ever inquire about me.
     And now, dearest lady, pardon the errors of this letter, as you
     have done all the graver faults of your ever grateful and now
     happier servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "To MRS. COBBOLD, St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich."

Margaret, with several other prisoners, departed for Bury assizes in the
prisoners' van, which started at six o'clock on the 9th of August, 1797,
under the care of Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler, and arrived at that place
about eleven o'clock in the forenoon.

The town was in a bustle, and the prisoners were received into the
borough gaol that day an hour or so previously to their trial--a day of
anxiety to many, but by too many spent in revelry and folly. The various
witnesses crowded into the town. The inns were filled on the 8th.
Expectation was alive and active; and the bustle of preparing for
business created a stir throughout that town, which at other times is
the most silent, the coldest, and the dullest place in England.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: The writer of these pages, one of the sons of that
excellent woman, was born on the 9th of September following.]




CHAPTER XXIII

TRIAL AND CONDEMNATION TO DEATH


There are few things that appear in greater and more painful contrast
than the general rejoicing which attends the assizes of a country town,
and the solemn and awful purposes for which those assizes are held. It
may be said, that it is matter of rejoicing when justice is about to be
administered; and that honest people have a right to be glad when the
wicked are about to be punished. But there is great difference between a
reasonable show of rejoicing, and the overflowings of pomp and parade,
levity and folly.

At the assizes at Bury, at the time we speak of, the sheriff's pomp and
state was something approaching to regal splendour. His gaudy liveries,
his gilded carriage, his courtly dress, and all the expenses attendant
upon such a station, made it a heavy burden to the unfortunate country
gentleman who should be appointed to such an office. The balls, too, and
public entertainments common at such time in the county, formed a
striking contrast to the sorrows and despair of the criminals. The
judges entered the town, the trumpets sounded, the bells rang, the
sheriff's carriage was surrounded with hosts of gapers of all kinds, to
see their lordships alight at the Angel steps. The Lord Chief Baron
Macdonald and Mr. Justice Heath attended divine service, at St. James's
Church, previously to their entering the courts. Who could look down
upon that assemblage, and see those grave men, with their white wigs
crowned with black patches, their scarlet robes, lined with ermine,
preceded by the sheriff's officers, and all the municipal servants of
that ancient borough, with their gilt chains, silver maces, and ample
robes, and not think of the purpose for which they were assembled!

The best preparation for the scenes met with in a court of justice, is
the house of prayer; though even here there is a strange contrast
between the peace and quietness of the church, and the bustle, broil,
and turmoil usually attendant on the administration of criminal justice.

At twelve o'clock, on the day of trial, August 9th, 1797, the Lord Chief
Baron Macdonald took his seat upon the bench, in the criminal court. Mr.
Justice Heath presided in the Nisi Prius. On the right hand of the Lord
Chief Baron sat the High Sheriff, Chalonor Archdeckne, Esq., of
Glevering Hall, with his chaplain, and a full bench of county and
borough magistrates. After the proclamation had been read, the
respective lists of the grand jury for the county and the liberty were
then called over, as follows:--

      FOR THE COUNTY

      Lord Viscount Brome.

      Sir John Blois, Bart.

      Philip Bowes Broke, Esq.

      Charles Berners, jun., Esq.

      George Golding, Esq.

      William Middleton, Esq.

      Eleazar Davy, Esq.

      John Frere, Esq.

      Matthias Kerrison, Esq.

      Wolfran Lewis, Esq.

      John Sheppard, Esq.

      Francis Broke, Esq.

      Mileson Edgar, Esq.

      Robert Trotman, Esq.

      John Bleadon, Esq.

      John Cobbold, Esq.

      Thomas Green, Esq.

      Joseph Burch Smith, Esq.

      Thomas Shaw, Esq.

      John Vernon, Esq.

      James Reeve, Esq.

      James Stutter, Esq.

      FOR THE LIBERTY

      Sir Charles Bunbury, Bart.

      Sir Charles Davers, Bart.

      Sir Thomas Cullum, Bart.

      Sir Harry Parker, Bart.

      Sir William Rowley, Bart.

      Nathaniel Lee Acton, Esq.

      Capel Lofft, Esq.

      Samuel Brice, Esq.

      William Parker, Esq.

      Richard Moore, Esq.

      Robert Walpole, Esq.

      James Oakes, Esq.

      Matthias Wright, Esq.

      Abraham Reeve, Esq.

      John Oliver, Esq.

      John Pytches, Esq.

      Thomas Cocksedge, Esq.

      John Cooke, Esq.

      George Jackson, Esq.

      William Kemp Jardine, Esq.

After the names had been respectively answered, the Lord Chief Baron
addressed the grand jury, in a most powerful and impressive speech, in
which he pointed out to their attention the extraordinary case then
about to come on for trial. The grand jury retired. The prisoners were
led into the cages, under the body of the court, where the people sat.
They could hear all the proceedings, and could see, through an iron
grating, all the witnesses in attendance. After the petty jury had been
sworn, and had appointed John Bloomfield, auctioneer and farmer, their
foreman, they took their seats, and various true bills were handed into
court against the prisoners, whose trials then came on. After an hour or
two, a paper was handed from the grand jury box, to the clerk of
arraigns; it was announced as "a true bill against Margaret Catchpole,
for horse-stealing." She presently after heard herself summoned by name;
and with trembling hand and foot, ascended the steps of the dock, and
stood before the bar. The court was crowded to excess, and upon the
bench sat more ladies than gentlemen. The judge cast a severe glance at
the prisoner, evidently expecting to find a bold, athletic female, of a
coarse and masculine appearance. Margaret was dressed in a plain blue
cotton gown, and appeared deeply dejected. She seemed to be inwardly
engaged in prayer. Once she looked round the court, to see if she could
discover the person of her lover, or the instigator to the crime for
which she was arraigned. Her eye rested only upon her aged father and
her affectionate brother Edward, who stood beneath her, close to the
bar. The workings of nature were too powerful to be resisted, and tears
rolled down the old man's cheeks, as he gave his hand to his daughter.
She kissed it, and let fall upon it the hot drops of agony.

"Prisoner at the bar, you stand committed upon your own confession,
before two of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of
Middlesex, of having, on the night of the 23rd of May last past, stolen
from the stable of your late master, John Cobbold, Esq., of St.
Margaret's Green, Ipswich, a strawberry roan-grey coach gelding, and of
having rode the same from Ipswich to London that night; and being in the
act of selling the horse next day following, when you were taken into
custody. For this offence you now stand before the court. How say you,
prisoner at the bar, are you guilty, or not guilty?"

Margaret looked at her judge, and in a firm though low voice said,
"Guilty, my lord."

"Prisoner at the bar," resumed the judge, "though you have made this
confession, you are at liberty to retract it, and to plead, 'Not
Guilty,' if you please, and so to take your trial. Your plea of 'Guilty'
will avail you nothing in the sentence which must follow. Consider then
your answer."

Margaret replied, "I am not able now, my lord, to plead 'Not Guilty.'"

"Why not?" said the judge.

"Because I know that I am 'Guilty.'"

This was too sound an argument to be disputed; and the judge did not
attempt any further explanation.

Margaret's appearance was not remarkable for beauty, nor was it by any
means unpleasing. Her figure was not masculine. She was tall, and rather
slender. She had a dark eye, dark hair, and a countenance pale from
emotion.

The judge then addressed her in the following words:--"Prisoner at the
bar, it is my painful duty to address one of your sex in such a
situation. I cannot possibly judge of your motives for committing such a
crime. They do not appear in your confession, and I am at a loss to
conceive what can have induced you to commit it. The sentence to which
you have subjected yourself is death. Have you anything to say why this
sentence of the law should not be passed upon you? Have you any friends
in court to speak to your character?"

There was evidently a stir in the body of the court, and several persons
were seen crowding forward to the witness-box, and all ready to enter
it. At this juncture the prisoner expressed a wish to know if she might
speak a few words to the judge.

"Prisoner at the bar," said the Chief Baron, "I am quite ready to hear
what you have to say."

There was now a hushed and breathless silence in the court, and the
prisoner spoke calmly, clearly, and audibly, in the following words:--

"My lord, I am not going to say anything in defence of my conduct, or to
make any excuse whatever for my crimes. I told your lordship that I was
guilty, and guilty I feel that I am. It is not for my own sake, either,
that I am speaking, but that all in this court may take warning from my
bad example. A kinder master and mistress no servant ever had, nor had
ever master or mistress a more ungrateful servant. I have long since
condemned myself, and more severely than your lordship can do it. I know
my crime, and I know its punishment. I feel that, even if the law
acquitted me, my own conscience would still condemn me. But your
lordship may proceed to pass sentence upon my body. I have already felt
assurance of some peace and mercy where I alone could look for it, and
thanks be to God I have not sought it in vain. It has prepared me for
this moment. My master and mistress have forgiven me. Oh! that all
against whom I have offended by my bad example could here do the same! I
do not ask forgiveness of the law, because I have no right to do so. I
have offended, and am subject to the penalty of death. If your lordship
should even change my sentence, and send me out of the country for life,
I should rather choose death, at this time, than banishment from my
father and my friends. Temptation would no longer assail me, and I shall
hope to see them, and all whom I now see before me, in a better world. I
hope your lordship will forgive my words, though you must condemn me for
my actions."

To attempt a description of the effect of these few words upon the court
would be impossible. The ladies hoped that mercy would be extended to
her. The judge looked at her with mingled astonishment and pity.

"Are there any persons present," said the judge, "who are ready to speak
to the previous character of the prisoner?" Whereupon the prosecutor,
her master, immediately ascended the witness-box. He stated that the
prisoner had, during the time she lived in his service, always
discharged her duty faithfully. He had reason to believe that she was
neither a hardened nor an abandoned character. He knew from experience
that she was most humane and faithful, and ready to risk her own life in
the service of another. He here mentioned her presence of mind, and the
intrepidity she had so signally displayed in saving the lives of his
children. He stated, moreover, that, for his own part, he never should
have prosecuted the prisoner but that the magistrates in London had
bound him over so to do, and a sense of duty compelled him to adopt this
course. He should always entertain, under all circumstances, a grateful
recollection of her. He particularly recommended her to mercy, because
he did not believe that she had committed the crime in question in
conjunction with any gang of horse-stealers, but that she was the dupe
of an infamous villain, who had persuaded her to steal the horse for
him, and for no pecuniary benefit to herself. He believed her to be a
proper object for royal clemency, and hoped that if his lordship could
find any mitigating circumstances in her favour, that he would give her
the full benefit of them.

George Stebbing, Esq., surgeon, Ipswich, stated that he had known the
prisoner from her childhood; that in her earliest years she gave promise
of such good character and conduct as would have merited the approbation
of all men. He mentioned her riding the pony to Ipswich.

Margaret put her head down upon the bar, and, hiding her face in her
hands, sobbed audibly before the whole court.

The doctor stated that, if she was at that moment at liberty, he would
take her into his own house. He assured his lordship that it was a
romantic hope of seeing her lover, that induced her to listen to the
voice of the tempter who induced her to steal the horse. He prayed for
mercy for her, and handed a petition to the court, signed by many
persons who knew her early history, and bore testimony to her former
good character.

Her uncle and aunt Leader next spoke in the highest terms of her general
good character. Her first mistress at the Priory Farm gave her also an
excellent character for honesty and humanity, and assured his lordship
that it was an early but unfortunate attachment which had been the cause
of this rash act; adding, that neither she nor her husband would object
to take the prisoner again into their service.

Several other persons spoke in her favour, and so cordial and so earnest
had been the testimony borne to her character, that in almost every
breast a hope began to prevail that mercy would be extended to her.

The judge took an unusually long time for deliberation. He was in
conversation with the high sheriff, but what passed between them did not
transpire. The longer he delayed his judgement, the stronger grew the
hopes of mercy. At last, turning round to the body of the court, he
looked for one most awful moment steadfastly at the prisoner; and, when
every eye was riveted upon him, he was seen to take the black cap from
beneath his desk, and to place it upon his head. That dreadful
forerunner of impending condemnation struck forcibly upon the hearts of
all the people assembled. Some ladies fainted, and were carried out of
court. The most perfect stillness ensued, as the Lord Chief Baron
addressed the unhappy creature in the following words:--

"Prisoner at the bar, I have paid attention to your address to me, and
to those around you, and am glad to find that you have made a proper use
of the time which has intervened between your committal to prison and
the present moment. Your words show that you are by no means ignorant of
your duty as a member of society, and that you are possessed of strong
sense and much good feeling. I earnestly wish that your conduct had not
been such as to belie that good sense which you possess. It is, however,
the more inexcusable in one who, at the time she was committing an
offence, must have known its heinousness. Your sin, prisoner at the bar,
has found you out quickly, and judgement as speedily follows. I will not
aggravate those feelings of remorse which I am sure you experience, by
any longer dwelling upon the painful situation in which your crimes have
placed you. I trust your own persuasive words will be long remembered by
every one present, and be a warning to all how they suffer themselves to
be betrayed into crime. May your early fate warn them in time to keep
themselves in the path of rectitude and honesty.

"I must say that, in the whole course of my judicial career, I have
never met with a person who so well knew right from wrong, and who so
extraordinarily perverted that gift. I must say, likewise, that I have
never met with any one who has received so good a former character at
such a moment as the present. The representations that have been made of
your past conduct shall be forwarded to the king, with whom alone the
prerogative of mercy in your case exists.

"It would be cruelty, however, in me did I not candidly tell you, that
the crime for which you are now to suffer is one of such frequent, bold,
and in this day, daring commission, as to defy the authority of the law;
so that persons detected and brought to judgement, as you are, stand but
little chance of mercy. It is not in my power to give you any hope of
escaping the full punishment of the law, but I will represent your case
this very night, before I sleep, to the proper quarter whence any
alteration in your behalf can alone be obtained.

"I need scarcely tell you not to rely upon any false hopes which friends
may hold out to you, who would grieve the more could they see the
danger and distress which they thereby occasion. Let me rather entreat
you to continue that attention to the interest of your soul which has
already been well instructed and fortified against the present crisis.
You have to prepare, prisoner at the bar, for a greater trial, a more
awful moment; and I hope you will make good use of the short time which
remains in preparation for eternity. You appear to have been well
assisted hitherto, and the good instruction seems to have fallen upon
productive ground. I hope the increase will continue to the day of your
death.

"It only remains for me to fulfil my duty, by passing the sentence of
the court upon you, which is--

"That you be taken from the place where you now stand, back to the place
whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, and there be
hanged by the neck until you be dead; and may God have mercy upon your
soul!"

At these last words tears of agony overwhelmed many in the court; but
Margaret herself seemed to be less overcome by the sentence than by the
kind words of the judge.

She respectfully curtsied to him and the court, and, in the act of
retiring, fell into her father's arms. She was conveyed back to the gaol
in a swoon.

In the meantime every exertion was made to represent her case favourably
to the judge. A petition was signed by many of the grand jury, as well
as the petty jury, in her behalf, and strong hopes were entertained of a
reprieve.

These things were not mentioned to the prisoner, who returned to the
cell of condemned felons, to employ her time in "seeking that peace
which the world cannot give."

A keeper constantly attended her, and a female sat up with her all that
night. She requested to have a Bible, and pen, ink, and paper: these
were granted her. She did not sleep, but read the Sacred Book, sometimes
aloud, sometimes to herself. She also seemed to find great relief in
writing to her friends. One letter which she wrote to her uncle, and
another to her mistress, on that very night, will best evince the state
of her mind and feelings.

     "MY DEAR UNCLE,

     "This will reach you to-morrow before you leave Bury. Give my love
     and best thanks to my aunt and friends who spoke this day in behalf
     of your unhappy niece; but, when you arrive at Ipswich, be sure and
     call and thank that dear old gentleman, Doctor Stebbing. I know he
     feels very much for me, but tell him not to distress himself, as if
     I were to be lost for ever. Tell him I hope to see him in a better
     world. He has been very kind to me in those days when I was most
     forlorn, and my Saviour, who then guided me to him, will give him
     his reward. For He says, that a cup of cold water given to one of
     His most poor and wretched children, shall not be forgotten.

     "Dear uncle, show this letter to the gentleman in whose hands you
     have placed the money which I gave you for such purpose, and tell
     him that I wish it to be restored to William Laud, its rightful
     owner, if he can be found, and will receive it again. If he is not
     found, after my death, within the space of one year, I wish it to
     be divided into four equal portions: one for my father, one for my
     brother Edward, one for yourself, and one for my aunt.

     "Do not mourn for me, dear uncle, for I sincerely believe in God's
     forgiveness of my past sins, through the merits of Jesus Christ, my
     Saviour. My prayer to God is, 'Increase my faith, O Lord! and
     pardon me, as thou didst the malefactor upon the cross;' for I
     feel, dear uncle, as if I was justly in that thief's condemnation.
     I hope soon, very soon, to be in a better state, and in a happier
     world. I wish you and my aunt to come to Ipswich and see me once
     more before I suffer. Tell my aunt I wish her to purchase something
     decent for my funeral. She will find some money in the corner of
     my box, under the linen. Oh! how little did he, who gave me that
     money, and who so worthily esteemed me, how little did he think
     that any portion of it would be devoted to such a purpose! My dear
     uncle, go and comfort my poor father, and my good young brother: I
     will write to them before another day is past. I wish my bones to
     lie beside my mother's and sister's, in Nacton churchyard. I am
     told that on Saturday week I shall probably suffer death. God grant
     I may then be prepared!

     "We shall all return to Ipswich as soon as the nine prisoners, whom
     Mr. Ripshaw brought to Bury, shall have been tried. Pray for me,
     dear uncle! Warn the dear children by my fate. I should like to see
     them myself. I wish I could impress upon their young minds the
     dreadful feelings of guilt which I have endured, and so prevent
     their commission of any crime. I am going to write now to my dear
     mistress, and, as you return to-morrow, you must take that letter
     and deliver it. God bless you, dear uncle! God's peace be with you!
     So no more from your poor affectionate niece,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "Bury Gaol, August 9th, 1797.
     "To MR. LEADER, Six Bells Inn, Bury."

                                             "To MRS. COBBOLD.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "My trial is over, and I dare say my dear master has already told
     you the fate of your unhappy servant. He cannot, however, tell you
     what I can, and what will better please your good heart than the
     account of my trial, namely, that I am not so disconsolate as many
     persons may think I am. No; God be praised, and thanks to those
     dear friends who visited me in the Ipswich gaol; and chiefly thanks
     to you, among them, my dear lady; my heart is consoled with the
     prospect of soon seeing better things than this wicked world can
     show me. Oh! my dear lady, I hope to see you among those bright
     shining spirits who live for ever in harmony and love. Oh! how
     happy shall we then be, free from fear of pain or grief! I have
     just been reading that beautiful passage, where it is written, 'God
     shall wipe all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more
     death, neither sorrow nor crying; neither shall there be any more
     pain.' Oh! what a different world must that be to this; and what
     should make us grieve to leave this world? It is only the fear of
     future wrath that can prevent our joyfully looking up to heaven
     through the valley of death. And, dearest lady, if such a wretched
     being as I am can hope in that Saviour who died for me and all the
     world, surely, you, dear lady, must have a bright, a pleasant
     prospect, before you. Heaven bless you, for all your goodness to me
     in the days of my prosperity, but more for your Christian charity
     in the day of my adversity! The judge, who really, I think,
     reminded me of you, told me I had been well instructed; I wish he
     knew you, dear madam, and he would then be assured of it. Thank my
     kind master for his goodness to his unworthy servant. I had no hope
     of mercy from the first, and the judge told me not to trust in any
     such idea in this world. He spoke much less severely than I
     expected; but I was prepared for his condemnation, and I am now
     preparing my mind for the day of execution. I find great comfort in
     the Scriptures, because I have no secret pangs of unconfessed
     guilt, or any wish in my heart to cover or palliate my offences. My
     trial is over, and the same God who sustained me through it, will,
     I hope, preserve my spirit faithful to the last. Every moment seems
     valuable to me, dear lady, now that I know them to be so soon
     numbered; and I scarcely like to lose one even in sleep. Nature,
     however, is weary with fatigue and anxiety, though my spirit seems
     so wakeful. If I go to sleep, it will be in prayer for you and all
     my friends. That God may bless you and all your dear family, is
     the heartfelt desire of your unfortunate, though ever grateful
     servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "BURY GAOL, August 9th, 1797.

     "P.S.--My good uncle Leader will bring this, of whom you can ask
     any particulars, as he was in court during my trial."

On the 11th of August, a letter arrived from the Home Office, in London,
giving full powers to the judge to exercise the prerogative of mercy in
her case, as he might see fit. The judge was not in court at the time,
but in his own rooms. He sent immediately for the sheriff and the
prosecutor, Mr. Cobbold, and explained to them the purport of the letter
he had received. He thought, however, that some punishment should mark
the sense of crime. He therefore commuted the sentence of death for the
shortest period of transportation for seven years; and he signed the
necessary document for such purpose. He intimated that that period might
be shortened by the good conduct of the prisoner in gaol; for as there
was great difficulty now in sending prisoners to the new settlement, her
portion of confinement would most likely be spent in the Ipswich Gaol.
The judge added, that the woman appeared to be a most sensible creature;
and he made many most minute inquiries concerning her education and
habits. He said that she had conducted herself during her trial in a
very becoming manner, and he hoped that her punishment would end with
half the term of confinement. This would depend upon the representations
of the visiting magistrates.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE REPRIEVE AND REMOVAL


The feelings of Margaret Catchpole under the new circumstances which now
awaited her, will be best explained by a letter written by her to Mrs.
Cobbold immediately after the communication of the happy tidings, and
her consequent removal to Ipswich Gaol.

                    "IPSWICH GAOL, Sunday Evening, August 13th, 1797.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "You have heard of your poor servant's reprieve. I had no time to
     write you word yesterday, because of the bustle of our return, and
     the general congratulations of the prisoners. Mr. Ripshaw has
     permitted me to have pen, ink, and paper, this evening, and I
     hasten to write my heart. Good Mr. Sharp has been warning me
     against too great exultation in my change, and very kindly says to
     me in words of truth: 'Sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon
     thee.' This was his subject in the chapel to-day. I certainly do,
     even now, feel very different to what I did when I wrote to you
     last, dear lady, from Bury. I had then made up my mind to die, and
     hoped to live for ever. I now make up my mind to live; but I hope
     not to die for ever. No, dear lady; if I thought that life being
     granted to me now was only to make my future dangers greater, I
     should grieve that I did not rather suffer before this time.

     "Life is sweet and to be desired, whilst the hope of becoming good,
     and doing good in our time, exists. God grant that such hope may be
     realized in my life! Oh! my dear lady, if by living I could only
     imitate you more nearly, I should then be full of hope. I feel,
     however, that temptation will assail me, when I leave this place
     and enter again into the world. Here I am well taught and well
     guarded against many temptations. I have many dear friends too, who
     take such an interest in me, that I am afraid of being vain, though
     God has shown me I have indeed nothing to be vain of, except it be
     of such as you, dear lady, who take notice of such a creature as
     myself.

     "Oh! what a happy Sabbath-day has this been to me! I am so thankful
     that my heart can sing psalms all the day long. I am very grateful
     for this paper and pen, that I may be able to speak to you, my dear
     madam, in this way. You taught me to read and write, and these are
     my great recreations. Pray lend me some good books to read, and if
     you would let me see some of your own dear writing, it would be a
     great blessing to me.

     "I have now seven years' confinement to look forward to. Oh! that I
     may greatly improve my time! Beneath your help, what may I not gain
     in my prison! It may be some weeks before I see your dear, loved
     face, as I hear that you are very near increasing your family. I
     would not have you come into this place at such a time on any
     account. But, as I am so near you, a word or a message, just to let
     me know that you, my master, and family are well, would lighten my
     burden.

     "Mr. Ripshaw has promised that I shall have plenty of employment.
     Work of any sort, you know, dear lady, is always agreeable to me.
     To be doing nothing is death to me. He tells me, moreover, that if
     I conduct myself well, he will not fail to represent my case to the
     magistrates for a shortening of the period of my captivity. I
     received some hint of this from the chaplains at Bury. You may be
     sure, dear lady, that I will do all I can to serve Mr. Ripshaw, and
     to merit the recommendation of the magistrates. I hope your dear
     children are well. I never was so happy as when nursing Master
     Roland; I hope I shall see him soon again.

     "Pray, dear madam, give my duty to my master, and to the young
     ladies and gentlemen; and accept the same from your ever grateful
     servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

Margaret was true to her good intentions. She became very industrious
and trustworthy in the service of Mrs. Ripshaw, the governor's wife; and
made herself useful in every possible way to her new mistress. In fact,
she became an invaluable person in the gaol. She exercised a moral
influence over those of her own sex who were inmates of the prison, such
as no matron could hope to attain.

Her father and brother often came to see her, and occasionally they
brought her a luxury which reminded her of the days of liberty--"a
harvest cake."

The reader will not be surprised to learn that Margaret still,
sometimes, asked after Will Laud. Her brother could give her but an
indifferent account of what he heard of him; one question, however, of
most vital import to the still lingering hopes of poor Margaret,
namely--"Is he single still?" he could answer in the affirmative. As a
set-off against this, she learned that he was still deeply engaged in
smuggling transactions.

In the winter of 1797, Margaret lost her father, who was taken off by a
bad fever, which at that time raged fiercely in the neighbourhood.

The following letter to her brother Edward speaks her feelings on this
event:--

                           "IPSWICH GAOL, December 21st, 1797.

     "DEAR EDWARD,

     "My sins appear to me doubly great, because they have prevented my
     fulfilling my duties to my dear father in his illness. They oppress
     me, because, but for them, I should have found such comfort in
     being able to wait upon him. Oh that I had wings to fly from this
     place to Nacton! if only for once to be present at the last duties
     we can any of us pay to those whom we love. But I cannot come, so I
     send you this letter. My tears fall upon it, whilst I write it. He
     was such a dear good old man to us all. Can I ever forget him?
     Never! You and he both stood near me upon my trial.

     "Ah! Edward, I do think my ill-conduct has killed him. He was
     always so fond of me, that I think he has never recovered the shock
     of that day. Yet he seemed well, and rejoiced to see me, with the
     hope of happier and brighter times. But he is gone, and all our
     grief, dear brother, will be useless. If we continue to walk in the
     right path, we shall meet him hereafter. We shall go to him; he
     cannot come to us. Yet, I wish I could join you in the churchyard;
     but I may not leave the prison for one moment. It is an indulgence
     no prisoner is allowed. Mr. Ripshaw has promised me that I shall
     have the afternoon of to-morrow to myself, which I shall employ in
     reading, and thinking about the burial service.

     "Dear old man! he promised to spend Christmas-day with me in my
     cell. He is in a happier place, where joy and peace will make every
     day his Christmas. I shall think of you to-morrow at two o'clock.
     Do you remember, Edward, the evening of our mother's funeral? Do
     you remember the stranger's visit, and that stranger our brother
     Charles? This melancholy time reminds me of him. You will have a
     dreary home now. Oh that I had power to make it happier!

     "I am glad the Cracknells are still near you, and that they are
     kind to you; though their misfortunes and mine have kept pace with
     each other. Never mind, Edward, what cruel people say to you about
     their prophecies concerning my downfall. They only tell you these
     things to aggravate you. The time may come when they will
     impudently say, they prophesied my rise and progress in the world.
     I hope better days are coming.

     "You must come and see me as soon as you can; for I feel at this
     time very low and sorrowful. So my dear brother, do come and see
     me, when you are able to spare the time. Pray for me, and I will
     not cease to do so for you. My dear mistress has promised to send
     this by an especial messenger. How kind of her to think of one so
     unworthy as your affectionate sister,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

In the spring of 1798, Edward Catchpole, finding the notoriety his
sister had obtained occasioned him much annoyance, left the
neighbourhood of Ipswich, and went into Cambridgeshire, where he
obtained a situation as shepherd, and was always a respectable
character. Poor Margaret felt this loss keenly, though a letter from him
now and then cheered her spirits.[10]

Her kind friends in Ipswich made her many little presents, which she
treasured up against the time she should go out. She hoped it might be
in three years. Inquiries were frequently made concerning her conduct,
which was uniformly orderly and good. She was the most useful person
that Mrs. Ripshaw ever had in the prison.

Margaret never made use of one single shilling of that money which Laud
had thrown down for her. She always thought that the time would come
when it might be claimed; and looked upon it as a sort of confidential
deposit, for which she was answerable. No individual could have acted
with more scrupulous and faithful regard.

Time swept on, and Margaret had spent two years of good conduct in the
Ipswich gaol. The magistrates had told Mr. Ripshaw they should recommend
her at the Midsummer assizes, when she was mentioned in high terms to
the Lord Chief Baron. But the crime of horse-stealing still continued,
day by day, to be a growing evil; and, as if Margaret was made to feel
the consequence of others' crimes, no mitigation of her sentence was yet
granted. It had been injudiciously told her by some friend, who, no
doubt, meant it kindly, that an application had been made to the judge
for the shortening of the period of her imprisonment. This made her feel
very anxious; and it proved a great disappointment to her when she found
that the interest made in her behalf was ineffectual. Her mind was
unhinged, and her spirit grew restless, anxious, and oppressed. Her
mistress observed these symptoms with concern, and dreaded a return of
that irritability which had formerly rendered her so miserable.

But where was William Laud? At his old trade. He was deeply concerned in
that affair at Dunwich, where William Woodward and Benjamin Lawsey, two
boatmen belonging to his majesty's Customs at Southwold, were beaten and
thrown into the sea; and the government offered one hundred pounds
reward for the apprehension of any one of the offenders. Forty empty
carts were seen by these two men, standing ready for a run, with horses
and men in a lane at Dunwich. The reward was offered in the county
newspapers of the date of March 2nd, 1799.

Such a system of open fraud was carried on along the whole coast of
Norfolk and Suffolk about this time, that the revenue of the kingdom
began to suffer severely in the customs. In the month of March of the
second year of her imprisonment, Mr. Gooch, officer of excise at
Lowestoft, and Mr. Burdell, of Aldborough, seized 880 gallons of gin,
belonging to Will Laud and his company; and the evidence brought the
affair so clearly home to him that he was taken up and sentenced to be
imprisoned one year in the Ipswich gaol, and to pay a fine of one
hundred pounds to the king. His property was seized and confiscated;
smuggled goods were found upon his premises, and he became a penniless
bankrupt, and an inmate of that very prison where the devoted Margaret
was suffering on his account.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 10: All traces of Edward Catchpole having been lost, the
author is obliged to Henry T. Bourne, Esq., of Alford, in Lincolnshire,
for making known to him, since the publication of the work, the
circumstances which are here briefly narrated.

Edward Catchpole went into Lincolnshire, and resided some time at
Sutton-in-the-Marsh. He was always fond of the sea, and for some years
became mate of the _Argus_ revenue cutter. In this vessel, he was
present at the rescue of an English coal brig, from the _Star_, French
privateer; and having put men on board the brig, sufficient to carry her
into port, he pursued the privateer, brought her to close quarters, and
having only twenty-seven men on board the cutter, he was overpowered,
and at ten o'clock at night compelled to surrender, as the privateer had
eighty-six men against him.

This was on the 18th September, 1807. He was made prisoner, and having
spent seven years in confinement, he made his escape, and reached home
in safety.

He was afterwards appointed chief officer of the coastguard, at
Sutton-in-the-Marsh, in the county of Lincoln. Though a very brave man,
and a steady officer, he did not appear to have any very serious notions
of religion, until he was compelled by a serious wound to keep at home.
It was the blessing of God to him, and others, that this accident
happened to him, for his mind appears to have been awakened to a deep
sense of his past sins, and his soul very much aroused to inquiry, by
the kindness of an excellent neighbour, who dressed his wounds for him,
and did her best endeavours to pour in consolation upon his broken
heart.

He became sensible of his need of a Saviour; and never after forsook the
help he found in his necessity, but became useful and exemplary, and
even the means, by the blessing of God, of saving others of his comrades
and companions. He died on the 17th of December, 1836, after affording
to all around him, a Christian example of patience under suffering
affliction.

He was interred in the churchyard at Sutton, and a stone at the head of
his grave contains the following inscription:--

                            IN MEMORY OF
                          EDWARD CATCHPOLE,
                         A NATIVE OF IPSWICH,
                      IN THE COUNTY OF SUFFOLK,
                    AND LATE CHIEF OFFICER OF THE
                             COASTGUARD
                     STATIONED AT THIS PLACE,
                 WHO DIED DECEMBER THE 17TH, 1836,
                           AGED 58 YEARS.

_Sutton-in-the-Marsh_, Jan. 1847.]




CHAPTER XXV

THE ESCAPE


Margaret had not heard of the capture of Laud; and he, even in his then
degraded condition, looked upon it as a thing not to be desired that she
should hear of. She had been engaged in washing for Mrs. Ripshaw. At
that time the large linen-horses belonging to the gaol stood in the
passage between the debtors' and felons' yards. Margaret had occasion to
remove those horses into the drying-ground. For this purpose she had to
pass through the governor's apartment into the thoroughfare between
these two yards. A strong palisade of oak, with sharp tenter-hooks on
their tops, stood on each side of this stone passage, leading from the
turnkey's lodge to the governor's rooms at the centre of the prison. As
Margaret was in the act of removing one of these horses, she saw a
sailor standing by the wall on the debtors' side. A sailor in prison
would interest her at any time; but this sailor looked so very like Will
Laud that she stood still with astonishment. He evidently saw her, and
as he approached toward the place where she stood, her heart was
convulsively beating, and a tremor came over her limbs. He came nearer:
it was Laud. She saw him again after the lapse of years; him whom her
earliest and warmest feelings had acknowledged as her lover. She had
never in her heart deserted him for an hour; yet he had hardly ever been
constant to anything. He approached, however, and Margaret, pretending
to be engaged in removing the linen-horses, felt her hands and feet
tremble exceedingly. She heard the well-known voice, which sounded like
music in her ears, say, "Margaret, is that you? How are you, Peggy?" She
tried all she could to summon courage to speak, but her heart was so
full, her breast heaved so rapidly, that she could not utter a word;
tears stood in her eyes, and she tried to smile through them; but, in
the act of lifting one of those great horses off the pegs, her hands and
knees could not support the weight, but down fell the horse upon her,
and cast her, with considerable force and clatter upon the stone-flag
pavement.

The noise of the fall brought out the governor and the turnkey at the
same moment, who, both concluding that the weight had overpowered her,
ran to her assistance, whilst the sailor, well knowing he could be of no
use, walked quietly away. No one in the gaol knew that he was Margaret's
lover. She was carried into the governor's house. The turnkey said he
had often removed the horses, considering they were too heavy for a
female to lift, though they were frequently carried by them. Margaret
told Mr. Ripshaw that the over-exertion had for a moment produced a
dizziness in her head, and a sudden faintness came upon her before she
fell. She dreaded, however, lest any one should imagine the real cause
of her accident. Her friend, the surgeon of the gaol, Mr. George
Stebbing, was sent for; and when he saw her he bled her, considering
that she had received some internal injury. It was a good thing he did
so, for it reduced her to such real weakness as confined her some days
to her bed, and afforded time for reflection.

Mrs. Ripshaw had promised Mrs. Cobbold, that if Margaret should be ill
at any time she would let her know it, and she now fulfilled that
promise. She sent her a note to tell her how the accident occurred, and
how she was. Mrs. Cobbold came immediately, and found her in an
unaccountable state of agitation. She at once asked Margaret if
anything particular had occurred, but she elicited nothing satisfactory.

No one in the gaol except Margaret knew Will Laud, and no one took any
particular notice of him but her. A letter, which was afterwards found
upon his person, shows how truly that poor girl had loved so unworthy a
man. Opportunities of occasional words were at different times offered
and seized upon by them, though these were few and far between. By
these, however, Margaret learned that he was a ruined man, sentenced to
a year's imprisonment, and to pay a fine of one hundred pounds to the
king; that in all probability his confinement might be for years, as
everything he possessed had been confiscated; his boats, ships, and
stock, had been seized; and yet imprisonment was to continue till the
penalty was paid.

The letter which Margaret wrote to him about this period, and contrived
to give into his hands, showed how deeply she entered into his past as
well as present feelings, and is a noble specimen of her devoted
affection:--

                          "FELONS' CELL, Jan. 10th, 1800.

     "DEAR WILLIAM,

     "You may guess my surprise to hear you say that John Cook knew
     nothing about you; that he invented a lie to get me to steal the
     horse. This accords, however, with my beloved mistress's opinion.
     Oh! how glad I am that I did not let out the secret that I had
     money of yours in hand! I should have lost everything if I had. He,
     a villain, induced me to go to London with the hope of seeing you
     at the Dog and Bone, Lambeth. He told me that you were hiding from
     the fear of arrest, and had confided to him your place of safety.
     He even showed me a letter purporting to come from you. Oh! what an
     artful villain!--what punishment he deserves!

     "But, dear William, make yourself easy about the fine. I will send
     for my uncle Leader before the time of your imprisonment expires,
     and the hundred and thirty guineas shall be given up to you. He
     shall pay the fine for you, and shall give you the remainder. You
     will own now that I am trustworthy. Oh! how happy I am that I did
     not make away with it, nor suffer others to do so! I kept it for
     you, and it comes into use at the moment it is most wanted. Nobody
     need know how it is disposed of; only remember your poor Margaret,
     that she longs for the shortening of her confinement, that she may
     join herself with your fortunes wherever they may be.

     "You will soon regain your liberty. I may have to complete my seven
     years here. But will you be faithful and wait for me? You promise
     fairly. You say you will live at Sudbourn, and try to get an honest
     living. Every hour of the day I am thinking about you; and at night
     I dream sometimes that I am sailing upon the ocean with you;
     sometimes that I am living with my father and brother. But dreams
     are deceitful. I hope you will never prove such to me again. I am
     willing to join my fate to yours whenever I obtain my release. Pray
     God that may be soon. Oh! that it could come on the day of your own
     release! but come or not then, believe me ever

                                "Your affectionate
                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

Not long after the date of this letter, application was made to the
Secretary of State for her pardon; but, unfortunately for her, the same
causes which had operated against her before still prevailed. The crime
of horse-stealing was at this date at its highest pitch, and depredators
of this kind became so bold, that it was thought necessary to give a
positive denial to the application in Margaret's favour. The prospect of
her release, therefore, did not appear a bright one, and every month
seemed to make it less probable.

The time for the departure of Laud out of prison now drew nigh, and
Margaret wrote to her uncle, requesting him to come and see her, which
he did; and she then gave him full powers to withdraw the 130 guineas
from Mr. Smith, and requested him to pay £100 into the hands of Mr.
Ripshaw on a certain day; namely, the 5th of March, the day previous to
Laud's term of imprisonment expiring.

Mr. Leader was well assured that she would never draw the money, except
to restore it to Will Laud. He asked her the plain question. She gave
him an honest answer. She told him that Will was then in prison, and
that his liberty depended upon the punctuality of the payment. Her
honesty with her uncle saved her from detection, for, in all
probability, had not Mr. Leader had more prudence than she had, it might
have been suspected by the gaoler. He at once suggested that Mr. Smith,
who was not known to have any connexion with her, should be requested to
pay the fine to Mr. Ripshaw, in behalf of the prisoner. It struck
Margaret, the moment it was mentioned, and she felt surprised that the
hurry and anxiety of her own feelings should have so greatly blinded her
as to leave her destitute of common prudence in this matter.

It was on the 3rd of March, in the year 1800, that Margaret was destined
to undergo the severest temptation she had ever yet experienced. She had
been employed in washing for the prisoners, and was engaged hanging out
the linen in the passage on one of the clothes-horses used for that
purpose, when she was accosted from the debtors' side in a well-known
voice, "Margaret! what a capital ladder one of those horses would make,
if set against the wall!"

She turned round, and there stood Will Laud. Cautiously she looked along
the passage to see if any one was near. She pretended to be busily
engaged; at the same time she said,--

"Ah, William! I understand you. I wish I could make my escape with you,
and I would; but I fear the thing is too difficult."

"You might manage it, Margaret, when the governor goes to Bury with the
prisoners."

"How, William! How?"

"You have the horse, and you have the linen line. Look around the wall,
and see if you cannot find a place of escape. You must be tired of your
captivity. I owe my liberty to you; and if I can once get you out of
this place, no power on earth shall separate us again."

"But where should I go, William, if I got out?"

"To my sister's at Sudbourn, Lucy Keeley. I will tell her to expect
you."

"That would do. I will look round and see if it can be done. On the 19th
or 20th of this month, Mr. Ripshaw goes to Bury with the prisoners. On
Monday the 24th, and Tuesday the 25th, are our two great washing days.
It must be one of those nights. Will you be waiting for me at the end of
the lane, near St. Helen's Church?"

"I will be waiting for you, never fear. I will have a sailor's jacket
and hat to disguise you in."

"Well, the trial is worth the risk. I will confide in you once more,
Laud; but if you deceive me, then, indeed, I care not what becomes of
me. But I will trust you. Go!--There is some one coming."

Laud departed, and Margaret busied herself with the linen. That day she
had many things given her to mend. She contrived also to get a candle,
under the pretence of working late. And such was the confidence which
was placed in her, and such the quantity of work she performed, that she
was trusted beyond any other prisoner in the house.

Margaret knew nothing of the penalty the law would compel her to pay for
breaking out of prison. She knew nothing of the bond by which the gaoler
was bound, in case of the escape of any of his prisoners. She saw but
her lover and liberty, and did not suppose it any great offence, even if
she should be detected in the attempt.

Her uncle Leader paid her a visit on the 5th, and gave her the thirty
guineas, telling her that the hundred guineas were lodged in the hands
of Mr. Ripshaw for the discharge of Will Laud.

"I will give William this money myself," thought Margaret; but she
breathed not one word of her intended escape to her uncle; and the good
man left her with the conscious happiness, that let her term of
confinement be what it might, she had been instrumental in procuring the
release of her lover.

It was a proud day for Margaret, that 6th of March, 1800. From the
felons' side she could see her lover depart out of gaol in company with
Mr. Ripshaw. She saw him go to the turnkey's lodge; and with a heart at
the same time bounding with the hope of liberty, she walked quietly
round the felons' yard, looking anxiously up at those long spikes to see
where the widest place could be found for her to get her body through.
That very hour she discovered a place where one of the spikes had been
broken off. She looked at it and sighed. She was very thoughtful about
it. It dwelt upon her mind night and day, till she had fully resolved to
make the attempt at that very spot.

At night, and early in the morning, she was at work for herself. Out of
one sheet she contrived to make a smock-frock, such as shepherds wear
over their clothes. Out of the other she made a pair of sailor's
trousers. These she laid upon her bed in such an ingenious manner, that
no one going into her cell would discover any difference in the usual
make of it.

Anxiously did she watch the hours for the departure of Mr. Ripshaw with
the prisoners for trial at Bury. In the very cell next to her own was a
felon to be taken away. The anxious time came, and Margaret saw the
governor and prisoners take their departure.

Meantime, Laud, directly he left the gaol, went to his sister's house at
Sudbourn. He reached that place the same night. He told his sister who
it was that had paid the fine for him, and thus completely won her heart
for Margaret. His plan was fixed to get off with Margaret in a
smuggler's boat, and get a cast to Holland, where he intended to marry
and settle. He told his sister his plan, and she approved it, and
promised to receive Margaret.

He was not long in ascertaining what boats were expected on the coast.
He had an interview with one David Shaw, the master of a cutter
belonging to Captain Merrells, and with him came to an understanding
that, some day after the 25th, when wind and weather should suit, he
should send a boat ashore for him. A red handkerchief tied round his hat
should be the signal that he was ready. He told him that he should be
accompanied by a friend, whom he wished to go over the water with him.
All these things were arranged, and, as far as they went, were in some
sense honourable. In the meantime he promised to assist in landing any
cargoes along the shore. And this part of the contract he performed.

On the 19th of March, Mr. Ripshaw, with seven prisoners, departed for
Bury. The business of the assizes began on Thursday, the 20th, and did
not terminate until that day week, the 27th. On Monday and Tuesday the
wash took place. On these occasions the female convicts are all locked
up in one large room, from seven o'clock in the morning until seven in
the evening; their food being brought to them in the washing-room. At
seven in the evening they all go into the felons' yard for exercise and
air. They usually give their signal that the wash is finished by rapping
the door about seven o'clock. This evening, Tuesday, the 25th, Margaret
contrived by various means to prolong the wash till nearly eight
o'clock, and as she had some kind of acknowledged authority and
influence among her fellow-convicts, she insisted upon the signal not
being given till the work was completely finished; so that at eight
o'clock it was quite dark. They were let out of the room into the
felons' yard at that time for one half hour. Some were accustomed to
saunter about, or to have a game of romps. Some, when the season
admitted, would weed the flower-beds; for Mr. Ripshaw was a great fancy
florist, and used to raise the best ranunculuses, carnations, and
polyanthuses, of any person in the town. His garden adjoined the felons'
walk, and was only separated from it by a very low paling. Margaret had
continual access to the garden, and used to take considerable interest
in the culture of the plants.

She was greatly disappointed to find that all the linen-horses stood on
the stone area, between the debtors' and felons' yards. She had hoped
that they would have been carried by the turnkey to the drying ground in
the garden, as usual, ready for the linen in the morning. Owing to some
cause or other, they were not there that night.

This was a sad disappointment, for she had made up her mind to escape
that very night. Could she be suspected? Had anybody betrayed her? No,
it was impossible. As the turnkey passed the palings she cried out to
him, "You have not put out the horses for us to-night?"

"No, Margaret," he replied, "we have all been too busy cleaning the
cells and yards; but they shall be put out the first thing in the
morning."

The reply was both satisfactory and unsatisfactory. It convinced her she
was not suspected; but declared that she must expect no help from the
linen-horses. She was glad, however, to see that the lines were on the
posts for the coarse linen, and the crotches, or props, in their proper
places.

She looked around for something to help her. The gaol wall was nearly
twenty-two feet high, and the _chevaux de frise_ three feet from the
point of one revolving spike to its extreme point. What could she get to
assist her? At one time she thought of pulling up a portion of the
paling for a ladder. She tried her strength at it, but it was too much
for her. She then turned her eye upon a large frame, which was used for
the flower-beds. It covered a long bed, and the awning usually placed
upon it to keep the sun off the flowers in the summer was not there. She
tried her strength at this, and lifted the legs upon which it stood
about a foot upwards. This she resolved to make her ladder. She looked
up at the narrow spot where the iron spike had been broken, and which
was close to the shoulder or prop of the _chevaux de frise_. Hope beamed
brightly upon her as she thought of her liberty. Margaret resolved to
make the attempt at midnight. At half-past eight the convicts all went
in to supper, and afterwards retired to their cells. But Margaret, the
moment she reached hers, contrived to slip out of it again, with the
things she had made for her disguise, into the adjoining one, which
stood open; and she crept under the bed of the felon who was gone to
Bury for trial. She had, as usual, closed her own door, and lay
anxiously waiting in her hiding place the turnkey's approach. She heard
him coming along, and asking the several prisoners, as he came, if they
were in their cells. They answered his summons, and then she heard them
locked up; and now came the challenge to her own door.

"Margaret, are you there?"

She put her lips to the wall of the cell where she was, and answered,
"Yes." It sounded exactly as if she was in bed in her own cell; and to
her great joy she heard the key turn in the iron lock, and the bolt
shoot into its place. She breathed for a moment freely, but the next
moment she experienced such a sudden revulsion as few could have borne
without detection. To her confusion and dismay, the turnkey entered the
very cell where she lay concealed under the bed. He walked up to the
iron-grated window, and, as usual, the casement stood open for the
benefit of air through the passage, and, in a soliloquizing manner,
said, "Ah! poor Sarah! you will never sleep upon this bed again!"

In breathless agony did Margaret dread two things equally fatal to her
project. One was, that he should hear her breath in the stillness of the
night, and discover her; the other, that he should lock the door upon
her. She knew that it was not usual to lock the doors of those cells
which contained no prisoners, but she dreaded lest the same absence of
mind which made him saunter into Sarah Lloyd's cell should make him look
the door. What a state of suspense! How did her blood course through her
frame! she could hear her heart beat! She was presently relieved from
her suspense, for the turnkey, having completed his duty in locking up
all his prisoners, quietly departed out of the cell, and left the door,
as usual, standing wide open. Never was relief more opportune or welcome
than this to her overcharged heart. The clock struck the hours of nine,
ten, and eleven, and Margaret had not stirred. She now rose, took her
shoes in her hand, and her bundle under her arm; she then managed to tie
it up with an apron-string over her shoulders, and, with the slightest
tread, stole along the stone passage. A mouse would scarcely have been
disturbed by her as she descended the front of steps that led to the
felons' yard.

To her great comfort she found the door unbolted; for the turnkey,
having locked every one up, saw no necessity for bolting the yard door.
Silently she opened it; it creaked so little, that the wind prevented
any sound reaching beyond the precincts of the door. She made her way to
the flower-stand in the governor's garden, lifted the frame out of the
ground and set it up endways directly under the broken spike. It reached
a little more than half way up the wall, being about thirteen feet long.
She then went and took the linen line off the posts, and made a running
noose at one end of it. She then took the longest clothes-prop she could
find, and passed the noose over the horn of it. She mounted the frame by
the help of the prop, and standing upon it she lifted the line up and
passed the noose over the shoulder of the _chevaux de frise_, then,
pulling it tight and close to the wall, it slipped down the iron and
became fixed.

Now came the greatest difficulty she had ever overcome in her life. She
drew herself up by the line to the top of the wall, and laying her body
directly upon the roller where the spike was broken, with the help of
one hand grasping the shoulder of iron, she balanced herself until she
had pulled up all the line and let it fall down the other side of the
wall; then, taking hold of the rope with both hands, she bent her body
forward, and the whole body of spikes revolved, turning her literally
heels over head on the outer side of the gaol wall. Was there ever such
a desperate act performed by any woman before? Had not the fact been
proved beyond all doubt, the statement might be deemed incredible. But
Margaret Catchpole did exactly as here described; and after the
oscillation of her body was over from the jerk, she quietly let herself
down in perfect safety on the other side.

Just as she alighted on the earth St. Clement's chimes played for twelve
o'clock. It was a gently sloping bank from the wall, and a dry fosse,
which she crossed, easily climbed over the low wooden palings against
the road, and made her way for the lane against St. Helen's church.
There she found Will Laud in readiness to receive her, which he did with
an ardour and devotion that told he was sincere.

They fled to an empty cart-shed on the Woodbridge road. Here Laud kept
watch at the entrance whilst Margaret put on her sailor's dress. She
soon made her appearance on the road with her white trousers, hat, and
blue jacket, looking completely like a British tar. They did not wait to
be overtaken, but off they started for Woodbridge, and arrived at the
ferry just as the dawning streaks of daylight began to tinge the east.
Their intention was to cross the Sutton Walks and Hollesley Heath to
Sudbourn. Unluckily for them, however, who should they meet at the ferry
but old Robinson Crusoe, the fisherman, who, having been driven round
the point at Felixstowe, was compelled to come up the Deben to
Woodbridge for the sale of his fish. The old man gave them no sign of
recognition, but he knew them both, and, with a tact that few possessed,
saw how the wind blew. But without speaking to either of them, he
proceeded with his basket to the town.

At this they both rejoiced, and as they took their journey across that
barren tract of land, it seemed to them like traversing a flowery mead.




CHAPTER XXVI

PURSUIT AND CAPTURE


The morning after Margaret's escape the turnkey was alarmed by the call
of the gardener, who came early to the prison to prune some trees in the
governor's garden. He told the turnkey there was a rope hanging down the
wall, as if some one had escaped during the night. They soon discovered
the frame against the wall; footmarks along the beds, and the linen
crotch, all told the same tale. The turnkey then ran to the men's cells,
and found them all bolted. He did the same to the women's, and found
them likewise fastened just as he left them the night before. He then
examined every window. Not a bar was moved. He did this without speaking
a word to any one. At the usual hour he called up the prisoners, and
marched them out of their cells. Margaret's was the last, at the end of
the passage. When he opened it, no one answered his summons. He walked
in; no one was there. The bed had not been slept in, and was without
sheets. He then made Mrs. Ripshaw acquainted with the facts.
Astonishment and alarm were depicted upon her countenance. Her husband's
absence made the circumstance the more distressing.

Search was made in every part of the gaol, but no trace of Margaret
could be found. The women with whom she washed the day previously all
declared that they knew nothing of her escape. They declared that they
saw her go before them to the farther end of the passage to her own
cell. But how could she escape and lock the door? The turnkey was quite
sure he had secured her in her own cell, for that he went into the one
adjoining after he had, as he supposed, locked her up in hers. It came
out, however, in the course of inquiry, that he remembered her asking
him about the horses not being set out for the wash; and the women
declared that Margaret had been very peremptory about not giving the
signal before eight o'clock. These things seemed to indicate a design to
escape, and carried some suspicion of the fact.

Mrs. Ripshaw, however, was not satisfied, but sent a swift messenger on
horseback to Bury St. Edmunds, with a note to acquaint her husband with
the circumstances. Mrs. Ripshaw also wrote to Mrs. Cobbold in the
greatest agitation, begging of her, if she knew where she was, to give
information of it, as her husband and two sureties were bound, under a
penalty of five hundred pounds each, to answer for the escape of any
prisoner from the gaol. Such a stir was created in the town of Ipswich
by this event as was scarcely ever before witnessed. People flocked to
the gaol to see the spot whence Peggy had made her escape, and many were
the reports falsely circulated concerning her.

It is not easy to describe the grief and consternation which was truly
felt by Margaret's dearest and best friend. She knew the consequences of
this rash act; that, if she was taken, it was death, without any hope of
reprieve.

She ordered her carriage, and went to the gaol, and was as much, or even
more astonished than the inmates of the prison could be. She soon
convinced Mrs. Ripshaw that she had not the slightest idea of any such
intention on the part of her late servant, neither could she tell where
she was gone. She made inquiries whether she had been seen talking with
any of the male prisoners; but no clue could be gained here. Mrs.
Cobbold was one of those whose decided opinion was, that she must have
had somebody as an accomplice; but every soul denied it. This lady
returned home in the greatest distress and uncertainty. Messengers were
dispatched to Nacton, to Brandiston, and even into Cambridgeshire, to
inquire after her.

When Mr. Ripshaw returned from Bury, he found some of the magistrates
in the gaol. He had formed a very strong opinion in his own mind, and
requested the visiting magistrates to examine the turnkey immediately.
He was summoned, and examined before Colonel Edgar, Mr. Gibson, and Mr.
Neale, and closely questioned. His answers were not deemed satisfactory.

The magistrates remanded him for a time, and conversed together upon the
subject. They were of opinion that somebody must have bribed the man,
and that he must have let her out, and have put the things as they were
found, as a blind to turn suspicion from himself.

He was again summoned, and given in custody, on suspicion of having
assisted the prisoner's escape.

In the meantime, every exertion was made to discover the prisoner, but
without any success. The following hand-bill was printed and circulated
in every direction:--

                              "FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.

     "Whereas, on Tuesday night, the 25th of March, or early on Wednesday
     morning, Margaret Catchpole, a female convict, confined in the Ipswich
     gaol, made her escape therefrom, either by scaling the wall, or by the
     connivance of the turnkey, this is to give notice, that the above reward
     shall be given to any person or persons who will bring the said Margaret
     Catchpole to Mr. Ripshaw, the gaoler; and one-half that sum to any
     person or persons furnishing such information as shall lead to her
     apprehension. And notice is hereby given, that any person concealing or
     harbouring the said Margaret Catchpole shall, after this notice, if
     detected, be, by order of the magistrates, punished as the law directs.

     "N.B.--The prisoner is a tall and dark person, with short hair, black
     eyes, and of intelligent countenance. She had on the gaol dress, and
     took away with her the two sheets belonging to her bed.

     "IPSWICH GAOL, March 28th, 1800."

This notice was circulated far and near, and furnished topics for
conversation throughout the county.

It so happened that some of the servants of Mrs. Cobbold mentioned the
subject of the reward to the old fisherman, Robinson Crusoe, as he stood
at the back-door with his basket of fish.

"Well, Robin, have you heard of the reward? Have you heard of Margaret's
escape from the gaol!"

"No; but I think I have seen her, or the foul fiend has played me one of
his shabby tricks."

"Seen her, Robin! Where?"

"I saw that fellow Laud, and somebody very like her, go across the
Sutton Ferry together. She might deceive anybody else, but the foul
fiend showed her to me, though she was in a sailor's dress. I told your
mistress, long ago, that no good would come of Margaret."

This news reached the parlour, and was soon communicated to Mr. Ripshaw,
who quickly had an interview with Mrs. Cobbold, and from her he learned
the intimacy existing between Will Laud, his late prisoner, and
Margaret, and could not doubt that he had assisted in her escape. He
soon ascertained the probable bearings of Laud's destination, and lost
no time in prosecuting the pursuit. He went off for Woodbridge and
Sutton Ferry directly. The ferryman corroborated the testimony of old
Colson as to two sailors, a slight one and a stout one, passing over the
river in his boat, on the morning of the 26th. They went off directly,
he said, for Eyke. Thither the gaoler pursued his course, and thence to
Sudbourn.

He found out that two sailors had been seen in that neighbourhood such
as he described them, and that they lodged at Mrs. Keeley's. He took a
constable along with him to the cottage, and at once demanded his
prisoner. The woman at first denied all knowledge of the persons he
sought, but, after threatening her with taking her off to gaol at once,
she confessed that her brother and Margaret were down on the coast,
waiting for a boat to carry them off to sea; she even confessed that
Margaret slept with her only the night before, and that a report having
reached them of the reward offered for her capture, she had put a
smock-frock over her sailor's jacket, and was assisting Keeley, her
husband, in keeping his flock upon the marsh saltings.

The constable of Sudbourn and Mr. Ripshaw went off immediately for the
saltings. They met Keeley, the shepherd, returning with his flock, to
fold them upon the fallows; but no one was with him. He was a shrewd,
sharp, surly fellow, and in a moment understood what was in the wind.

Mr. Ripshaw began the attack. "Constable, take that man into custody."

"Where's your warrant, Mr. Gaoler? 'Old birds are not to be caught with
chaff.' Now, then, your warrant for my apprehension, and I am the man to
go with you. Come, show me the warrant at once; or, you no sooner lift
your hand against me than I will show you what resistance is, and you
shall take the consequences of an assault upon my person."

The fellow stood with his brawny limbs displayed before them, and his
two fierce, rough-coated, short, flap-eared dogs wagging their stumps of
tails, and looking earnestly in their master's face, to see if he gave
the signal for them to attack either, or both the gaoler and the
constable. It was clear that they must go upon another tack.

The shepherd gave a shrill whistle to his dogs, and on they dashed,
driving the sheep towards the fold.

They proceeded directly along the shingled hardware to the beach, or
rather to the shore of the river-side, which in those parts much
resembles the sea-shore. The revenue cutter's boat was then going across
the stream of the Alde; they hailed it, and the officer in command
ordered his men to return.

It was young Barry who came on shore from the boat, and he immediately
walked a little way apart with the gaoler, who explained to him the
nature of his business; and painful as its connexion with Margaret
Catchpole made it to Barry, his sense of duty compelled him to render
the assistance required. Accordingly, they were soon seated in the stern
of the boat, and were rowed by his men towards the spot, where, on the
main shore, Laud and Margaret stood, anxiously watching the approach of
a boat from a vessel on the sea.

There they stood, not only unconscious of approaching danger, but
congratulating themselves upon the prospect of a termination of all
their troubles. Joyfully did they watch the boat coming over the billows
of the sea, not seeing the other boat approaching them from the river. A
few minutes more, and they would have been beyond the reach of gaolers
and of prisons.

Neither Laud nor Margaret saw them until they came down upon them,
headed by the gaoler, whose voice Margaret instantly recognized. With a
wild shriek that made the welkin ring, she rushed into the sea, and
would at once have perished, had not Laud caught her, as a wave cast her
back upon the beach and suddenly deprived her of sense and speech.

He stood across the seemingly lifeless body of that devoted girl, and
with a pistol in each hand cocked, and presented to the foremost men,
the officer and the gaoler, he exclaimed, "Let us go--we are not
defrauding the revenue--you have no business with us!"

"_You_ may go unhurt," replied the gaoler, "if you will deliver up the
body of Margaret Catchpole. I must and will have her in my custody."

"If you do, Mr. Ripshaw, it shall be at the peril of your life, or the
cost of mine. The first man who approaches to touch her shall be a
corpse, or he shall make me one."

There was such determination in his words and attitude, that every one
saw he would not flinch. It was a painful moment for young Barry; he
wished to save the life of Laud; he did not wish to risk that of any of
his men; he stepped forward, and said,--

"Will Laud, let me entreat you to give up the person of Margaret
Catchpole; she has escaped from the custody of the gaoler, and is under
sentence of transportation. I promise that you shall depart in safety,
and that she shall take no hurt. Do not force me to shed blood--we
_must_ take her!"

The next instant two pistols flashed, and Laud lay stretched upon the
sand. He had first fired at Barry and missed him, and the next moment,
in self-defence, Barry was compelled to fire in return. The ball, which
was intended only to have disabled his arm, passed through his heart and
killed him on the spot. So ended the career of a man who, only in the
few latter days of his life, seemed steadily resolved to act fairly by
the woman who had devoted her life to him, and to follow some honourable
occupation in a foreign land. Poor Susan's words at last proved true:
"Margaret you will never marry William Laud."

The bodies of Laud and Margaret were both carried by the sailors to the
preventive-service boat, and laid upon the men's cloaks at the bottom of
it. After a while, Margaret began to revive, and her awakening dream
was, that she was on board the smuggler's boat, which was coming to meet
them. But the men in that boat, observing the fearful odds against them,
had only rested on their oars to see the fatal result which took place,
and then turned back and steered for their own vessel.

Margaret looked wildly round her as the moonlight shone upon the
sailors. She whispered, "Laud! Laud!" She saw something lying in a line
with herself upon the same cloaks, but could not distinguish anything
but a sailor's dress: she heard a voice at the helm which was familiar
to her; she recognized it to be Barry's; she lifted her head, and saw
the banks of the river on both sides of the water. The truth seemed to
flash upon her, for she fell backwards again, fainted away, and became
insensible.

She and her lover were conveyed to the Ship Inn at Orford. The sailors
who carried her, sensible of the devoted heart of the poor girl, seemed
oppressed with heaviness, and could not refrain addressing one another,
in their own peculiar style, upon the bad job of that night. Margaret
became too soon and too fully acquainted with her situation. She shed
tears of the deepest agony; her mind was distracted, and without
consolation. She did not speak to any one; but between sobs, and groans,
and lamentations upon her loss, she seemed the most melancholy picture
of human woe. By what she had heard from some of the pitying sailors
around her, she understood that it was young Edward Barry who had shot
her lover. When he came into the room where she was seated in an
arm-chair, with her head resting in an agony upon her hand, he went up
to speak to her. She lifted up her hands, turned her head aside, and
exclaimed--

"Begone, wretch! Did you not voluntarily promise you would never hurt
him?"

"And so I would, Margaret, if he would have permitted me to do so. But
he would not. He first fired at me, and then I returned it; but only
with the intention of disarming him."

"You have done a noble deed, and one which will immortalize your name,
one which will form a source of happy reflection to you hereafter, most
noble man of war! You have killed a harmless man, and have taken captive
a poor fugitive female! Happy warrior! you will be nobly rewarded!"

"Do not reproach me, Margaret, but forgive me. I have only done my duty;
and, however painful it has been, you would not reproach me, if you did
but know how much I really grieved for you."

"Your grief for me will do me about as much good as mine will poor
William!" and here Margaret burst into a flood of tears, which words
could not in any way repress.

A post-chaise was ordered to the inn-door, and Margaret, apparently more
dead than alive, was placed within it, and the gaoler taking his seat
beside her, they were conveyed immediately to Ipswich.

She was once more confined within those walls which she had so recently
scaled; she made no secret of the manner in which she had effected her
escape; she fully confessed her own work, and perfectly exonerated every
other person in the gaol.

It was well for the poor turnkey that she was captured. He was
immediately released from confinement, and reinstated in his office.

Margaret was now kept in almost solitary confinement, to mourn over her
unhappy lot, and to reflect upon the death of one whom she had loved too
well.




CHAPTER XXVII

SECOND TRIAL, AND SECOND TIME CONDEMNED TO DEATH


After the arrival of Margaret at the Ipswich gaol, several magistrates
attended, at the request of Mr. Ripshaw, to take the deposition of the
prisoner. She was summoned into the gaoler's parlour, or, as it was more
properly called, the "Magistrates' Room." The depositions of Mr. Ripshaw
and of the constable of Sudbourn, were first taken down. The nature of
the offence was then for the first time explained to Margaret, and its
most dreadful consequences at once exposed. She was taken completely by
surprise. She had no idea that, in doing as she had done, she had been
guilty of anything worthy of death, and made no hesitation in telling
the magistrates so. She told them, moreover, that her conscience did not
accuse her of any crime in the attempt, and that she thought it a cruel
and bloody law which could condemn her to death for such an act.

"But are you aware," said Mr. Gibson, one of the visiting magistrates,
"that you have broken that confidence with Mr. Ripshaw which he placed
in you, and that you subjected him and his sureties to the penalty of
five hundred pounds each, had he not recovered you, and brought you back
to prison?"

"Had I been aware of such a thing, I should then have thought myself as
bad as if I had stolen the money, and should, indeed, have broken the
confidence which, with such a knowledge, would have been placed in me,
but I knew nothing of such a fact. My master, Mr. Ripshaw, was always
kind and indulgent to me, and my mistress the same, but they never
hinted such a thing to me. I was not aware that, with regard to my
personal liberty, there was any bond of mutual obligation between me and
my master. I was always locked up at the usual time, and it never was
said to me, 'Margaret, I will rely upon your honour that you will never
attempt to escape.' No promise was exacted from me, and I did not think
that it was any breach of confidence to do as I have done."

"You do not consider that you might have ruined an innocent man; that
the turnkey was actually committed upon suspicion of having connived at
your departure, as nobody would believe that you could have done such an
act of your own accord."

"I might not have done it of my own accord, though I certainly did it
without the assistance of any human being. He, alas! is dead who
persuaded me to it, though I confess it did not require any very great
degree of persuasion; and I fear that, were he living now, I should
almost attempt the same again."

"There you speak contemptuously, and in a very unbecoming manner, young
woman."

"I did not mean to be disrespectful to you, gentlemen, especially as you
are so kind as to explain to me the nature of the law. I only meant to
express my own weakness. But may I ask what law it is that makes the act
I have been guilty of so felonious as to deserve death?"

"You may ask any question you please, but you must not add defiance to
your impropriety and guilt. You are sensible enough to be well assured
that the magistrates here present are not your judges. They have a duty
to perform to their country; and they consider it a privilege and an
honour that their sovereign places them in the situation of such an
active service as to send prisoners before the judge; that such as
transgress the laws, and render themselves unfit to enjoy rational
liberty, should be punished, as men not worthy to be members of a well
organized and civilized community. By the law of the land you live in,
you have once been condemned to death for horse-stealing. By the mercy
of your king, you have had a reprieve, and a commutation of that
sentence of death for transportation for seven years. The period you
have spent in gaol is part of that sentence. Now understand the law:--

"'Any prisoner breaking out of gaol, if he resist his gaoler, may be
killed on the spot, in the attempt of the gaoler to restrain him. And
any person breaking out after sentence of death, shall be considered
liable to that punishment for his original offence, which had been
commuted, and shall suffer death accordingly. If he escape through the
door of his prison, when left open, it shall not be felony, because it
is the negligence of the gaoler; but if he break out, after proper
caution exercised for his security, either by force in the day, or by
subtlety in the night, then it shall be felony.'

"Such is the law; and though in your case, young woman, you may not
consider it just, yet when you reflect upon your example to others, you
will see it in a different light. If every prisoner should go unpunished
who broke out of prison what continual attempts would be made to escape!
I am truly sorry for your case; but the law is made for offenders; and
it is our duty to send you to Bury again for trial. In the meantime, the
gaoler will be upon the alert, and take good care that you do not commit
the same offence again."

Margaret thanked Mr. Gibson for his explanation. She felt very sorry,
she said, if she had offended any one, and hoped they would forgive her
ignorance and unintentional offence.

She was fully committed to take her trial for the second offence. Mr.
Gibson was much astonished at her presence of mind and singularly acute
understanding, as well as appropriate and becoming form of speech, which
she used as naturally as she felt it. His words to one deeply interested
for Margaret were, "What a pity that such a woman should not know the
value of her liberty before she lost it!"

The reader knows the reason why Margaret broke out of prison, and has
seen how she became a second time amenable to the laws. He will observe,
that it was from her acquaintance with that desperate man, who had been
the cause of misery to her and her family, from the first days of her
acquaintance with him. But he was now dead. The cause was removed, and
with it died every wish of her heart for life and liberty.

But it was not the place that made Margaret so unhappy. It was the void
occasioned by the having no one now to love, that made her feel as if no
one in the world loved her. In this she was greatly mistaken; for though
her offence had occasioned much condemnation among those who were
interested in her, yet they were not so lost to pity and compassion as
not to feel for her sufferings. Among the foremost of those friends was
her former mistress, who, in the true sense of the word, was charitable.

As soon as she heard that Margaret was retaken, she saw at once all the
dreadful consequences which awaited her, and knew that she would require
more than double attention and care. Her first step was an application
to a magistrate (Mileson Edgar, Esq., of the Red House), for an order to
visit Margaret in prison, and the application was immediately granted in
the following letter from that gentleman:--

                               "RED HOUSE, May 10th, 1800.

     "MY DEAR MADAM,

     "Any request that you would make would be sure to meet with prompt
     attention from me, because I am well assured that you would not
     make one which I could not grant, and which, when granted, would
     not give me pleasure to have attended to. Herewith I send you an
     order to Mr. Ripshaw to admit you to visit Margaret Catchpole
     during her confinement in the Ipswich gaol. What an extraordinary
     being she is! a clever, shrewd, and well-behaved person, yet
     strangely perverted in her judgement! She actually cannot be
     persuaded that she has offended against the laws of her country.
     You will, I trust, my dear madam, by the exercise of your influence
     and judgement, convince her of her folly. I am truly glad that you
     intend going to see her; for next to the pleasure derived from
     granting your request is the comfort I derive from the prospect of
     great benefit therein to the prisoner.

                                "Believe me, my dear madam,
                                    "Ever yours sincerely,
                                        "MILESON EDGAR.

     "To MRS. COBBOLD, St. Margaret's Green, Ipswich."

The visit was soon paid to poor Margaret in her cell, and it was one of
deep interest and importance, inasmuch as it paved the way for a better
frame of mind, and deeper humility, than this wretched young woman ever
before felt. On this account we shall record the particulars of the
interview in detail, as related by the lady herself.

When Mrs. Cobbold entered the cell, Margaret rose and curtsied
respectfully, and the next moment the big tears rolled down her cheeks,
and her chest heaved with convulsive emotion, as if her heart would
break. The gaoler placed a chair for the lady, and retired to the end of
the passage. For a long time nothing could be heard but the occasional
sobs of the prisoner. At length she spoke:--

"Oh! my dear lady, how can you look upon me? You are good to come and
see me; but indeed I feel as if I was not worthy you should come. I
never dared to ask it of you. I had scarcely any hope of it. It is only
your goodness. I am a poor, ill-fated being, doomed to sorrow and
despair!"

"Margaret, I came to see you from a sense of duty to God, and to you
too: I came to try and comfort you; but how can I give consolation to
you if you talk of your being ill-fated and _doomed_ to despair? Do not
say that the doom of fate has anything to do with your present
situation. You know as well as I do, that unless you had misconducted
yourself, you might have been as happy now as you were when I saw you
after your return from Bury. Put your sin upon yourself, and not upon
your fate. You know the real cause of this unhappiness."

"Ah! dear lady, what would you have done if you had been me and in my
place?"

"I might have done as you did; but I do think, Margaret, knowing what a
friend I had always been to you, that you might have placed confidence
in me, and have told me Laud was in prison. I observed that you were
much disturbed, and not yourself, when I last came to see you, but I
could not divine the cause."

"I was afraid to tell you, madam, lest you should persuade me to give up
my acquaintance with him, and I had learned much more to his credit than
I knew before."

"And so, by following your own inclination, you have brought your lover
and yourself to an untimely death. Oh, Margaret! had you confided in me,
I should have persuaded you to have tried him until you had obtained
your discharge from prison; then, had he been a respectable and altered
man, I should have approved of your marriage."

"But think, dear lady, how constant he had been to me for so many years!
Surely his patience deserved my confidence."

"And what good did you ever find it do you, Margaret? Look at the
consequences."

"I could not foresee them. How could I then look at them?"

"Though you were so blind as not to foresee the consequences, others,
with more reflection and forethought, might have done so for you; and,
assuredly, had you hinted the matter to me, I should have prevented
what has happened."

"I wish indeed, now, that I had done so. I suffer most severely in my
mind, not from the fear of punishment, but because I have been the cause
of William Laud's death."

"And he will have been the cause of your own, Margaret. Had he not
persuaded you to break out of prison, he would not have been killed. He
knew the penalty was death to you if you were caught, and he has met
that very end to which he has now made you liable. Had he loved you
lawfully and honourably, as he ought to have done, he would have waited
for your free and happy discharge."

"But it seems to me," said Margaret, "so very strange, something so out
of justice, to condemn a person to die for that which does not appear to
her to be a crime. I cannot see the blood-guiltiness that I have thus
brought upon myself. In God's commandments I find it written, 'Thou
shalt not steal.' I stole the horse, and I could see that I deserved to
die, because I transgressed that commandment; but I do not find it said,
'Thou shalt not escape from prison.'"

"Now Margaret, your own reasoning will condemn you. You acknowledged
that you deserved to die for stealing the horse. Now consider the
difference between the sentence you were actually prepared to submit to
and the one for which it was in mercy changed. Though justly condemned
to death, you are permitted to live and undergo a comparatively mild
punishment, yet you cannot see the duty of submitting to it. You should
have endured the lesser punishment without a murmur. You appeared to
receive the award of it with such thankfulness that it made all your
friends rejoice for you. But how deep is their present sorrow! What will
the judge say to you now when you are placed before him? Religion
teaches you submission to the constituted authorities of your country;
and you ought to think with humility, as you once did, that, like the
thief on the cross, you suffer justly for your crimes. To my mind,
Margaret, you have no excuse whatever. It may be all very well for
romantic ideas of fancy to make your lover the excuse; but you were not
at liberty to choose to roam over the sea with him until you could do so
with a free conscience."

"It is not for me, dear lady, to say a word against your reasoning. I
did not look upon my crime in this light."

"You must learn to look upon your crime as one which has done injury to
society. Which of your friends, who interceded for you with the judge,
and gave you so good a character, can now intercede for you again? I am
persuaded, Margaret, that the judge himself will think his former mercy
much displaced, and that you will meet with severity and reproach at his
hands."

"Dear lady! who can give me comfort? Laud is dead, my father is dead, my
brother is at a distance and will probably be so ashamed of me that he
will never come to see me again. To whom, then, can I look for help?
You, my dear mistress, must be hurt at my conduct, and all my friends
likewise. I do not deserve their compassion, and yet I never wanted help
so much. Oh! who shall comfort me now?"

"You shall have all the consolation I can give you; I will pray for you
continually; I will lend you such books to read as I think may assist
you; and were we not now about to remove from St. Margaret's Green to
the Cliff again, and in the midst of much bustle, I would come to see
you much oftener than I can now do. My family is increasing, and your
master says he must return again to the brewery and to business. But I
will come and see you many times, and when I cannot come I will write
such instructions as, if you pursue them diligently, may, with God's
blessing, promote your everlasting benefit. I am glad that you are
sensible of your sins. This will go some way towards your deriving
consolation from the Word of God. Attend to the precepts of the
chaplain, who is a good man, and understands your disposition as well
as I do; I shall often communicate with the Rev. Mr. Sharp concerning
you. You must indeed be very, very humble, before you can obtain that
sweet peace of mind which you once possessed. It will come to you again,
if you are sincerely penitent and resigned, but not without."

"You are a dear friend, madam, to the poor destitute, and the only one
now left me upon the earth. Oh! how, dear lady, can I be worthy of such
kind consideration? Forgive me! oh, pray forgive me!"

"Margaret, I wish the law could as freely forgive you as I do, but you
must not expect it. You must fortify your soul with religious
consolation alone. Everything else will fail. You must think of far
greater love than I can show to you, Margaret; love that has endured
inexpressible anguish for you; love that has laid down life for you; and
that will teach you how to die. You must think of your Saviour's
love--free, unsought, undeserved love. Oh, the depth of His riches! Who
can estimate them as he ought? You must look up to Him during every
moment of your short existence, and be never weary of praying to Him for
forgiveness. But I must now leave you, Margaret. It shall not be long
before I see you again. God bless you! Good-bye!"

Margaret could not speak, but she knelt down and prayed inwardly.

For the next three months Mrs. Cobbold became a frequent visitor at the
gaol, and found that Margaret made the best use of her time between the
period of her committal and her trial. How instructive are the minutes
of her progress, which that lady made, during that most engaging period!
and how blessedly employed was the enlightened mistress in communicating
light to her poor benighted servant! It was now that she made amends, in
her own heart, for that too common error among all who exercise power
and authority: the neglect of the spiritual welfare of their dependants.
She applied her powerful faculties to the strengthening and refreshing
of her servant's mind, by humbling herself with her before God. And well
was she repaid for this exertion. Abundant was the reward to herself in
obtaining that experience in the ways of godliness which strengthened
her own faith and increased her charity.

Margaret's mind underwent a complete change. She might be truly said to
be a resigned and patient Christian; one who, from that day to her
latest moments, never lost the influence of those purest principles and
most blessed hopes which were then instilled and rooted in her soul.

On the 1st of August, the day previously to her departure for Bury,
Margaret received the following letter from her excellent mistress:--

                        "CLIFF, IPSWICH, August 1st, 1800

     "MARGARET,

     "I cannot come and see you, as I had intended this day to have
     done, having been so unfortunate as to sprain my ankle in getting
     out of my carriage on to the stone step at the Cliff. But I am so
     full of thought about you, that my painful foot shall not prevent
     my willing hand writing to you a few words before you depart. It
     may be good for you and me that this accident has occurred, however
     much it may seem our present privation. It may teach us that we
     never can command events, or tell what a day may bring forth. It
     may so happen that this letter may do you more good than my visit;
     if so, I shall not regret the pain I suffer, since I shall have the
     consolation of its seeming evil being productive of some good. Oh,
     how I wish that we could look upon all events in the same manner,
     and be persuaded that all things 'work together for good to them
     that love God!' Let us (i. e. you and I) be thus persuaded. It will
     prevent us experiencing any present mortification in the
     impossibility of our seeing each other at this time.

     "I would first speak to you about your conduct at the trial, and my
     pen does that which my tongue would do. Do not attempt in any way
     to defend your conduct. Being fully convinced, by God's grace, of
     the criminality of your act and deed, let no legal sophistry
     whatever induce you to plead _not guilty_. In a court of justice,
     you should stand before man in the same way as you would before
     your Maker, without any covert deceit, any desire to make a bad
     cause appear a good one.

     "Satan is sometimes transformed into an angel of light. He is so
     eloquent, so engaging, so bold, so devoted, so earnest, so
     intelligent, so interesting, so persuasive, that a lie comes from
     him with such apparent grace, that the sons of God are almost
     deceived by his transformations. But let not any one persuade you
     to take advantage of his services. Truth, Margaret, needs no
     fiction to defend it; for 'whatsoever loveth and maketh a lie shall
     never enter into the city of truth.' So do not suffer any one who
     calls himself your friend to persuade you to trust to fallacies.
     You know yourself guilty. Conduct yourself as a person conscious of
     your guilt before God and man. I shall not deceive you. The penalty
     of your crime is death; and you do not forget the argument that I
     used upon a former occasion, 'that if a man owns himself justly
     condemned to suffer death, and has mercy shown to him by giving him
     a lesser punishment, his duty is to suffer that lesser punishment
     with the same resignation as he would death. And if he fail in this
     duty, he justly deserves the former punishment.' So do you justly
     deserve sentence of death for your present or late sin. And you
     will be condemned to die!

     "Be prepared for much severity at the hands of our offended judge.
     I say, be prepared; for unless he should know as much of you as I
     do, he will think you one of the worst persons alive, and therefore
     only fit to be made a public example of by a violent death. I know
     you, however, Margaret; and though I believe that if you were now
     restored to liberty you would be a Christian servant, and never
     more be a guilty slave of sin, yet your judge cannot know this.
     Indeed, scarcely any of the magistrates know this. It is,
     therefore, best to be prepared for a severe trial. Do not attempt
     to call any one to speak to your character. It will be of no use.
     The representations made by the magistrates at the last assizes
     will be sufficient testimony up to that time; and since then, you
     cannot say that you deserve any defence. You must not expect any
     mercy, but prepare yourself not only to receive sentence of death,
     but _prepare yourself to die_.

     "If a prisoner who knows himself to be guilty does not prepare
     himself to die before the sentence of death is passed upon him, his
     is a very dangerous state, since the period is so short between
     condemnation and execution that he must be very much distracted."

     "You have read through 'The Christian's Consolations against the
     Fears of Death,' and you tell me that your mind has been greatly
     strengthened by the piety expressed in this good old book. I agree
     with you that it touches upon every source of consolation which a
     Christian man can contemplate. It meets almost every case. But it
     does not exactly contemplate a female convict, like yourself; and
     on this account I would add a very few words of advice to you upon
     this subject.

     "To die a Christian, and as a Christian ought to die, is to have no
     desire whatever but for the kingdom of God. You suffer justly for
     your crimes; and you must not let any one deceive you into any
     false idea of your own worthiness to live. The penitent malefactor
     on the tree rebuked the boldness of his brother, who railed upon
     the Saviour of the world, and used these words of reproof, 'Dost
     not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we
     indeed suffer justly; but this man hath done nothing amiss.' Then
     he prefers that humble prayer, which should ever be yours,
     Margaret, up to your latest moment, 'Lord, remember me when thou
     comest into Thy kingdom!' How infinite in mercy is the Lord! How
     loving! How pitiful! How generous to the poor wretch at the moment
     of his late repentance! We cannot tell, Margaret, how late that
     repentance was. He might have been convinced of his guilt long
     before he was lifted up to die. In prison he might have heard, as
     you have done, of the great, the good, the only Christ. So that men
     do wrong to take even this example for the success of a death-bed
     repentance at the last hour. We cannot tell when our last hour may
     be. Our first should be one of repentance as well as our last. And
     the whole desire of our lives should be, to be remembered in the
     kingdom of Christ. The blessed words of our Saviour must have taken
     away the sting of death from the faithful heart of the penitent:
     'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.'

     "I conceive that we are justified in taking these words to our own
     selves in our own contemplation of death, and in considering them
     as the most blessed words that can be used to destroy the power
     which the King of Terrors often raises in the minds of weak and
     sinful mortals. If you are truly penitent, justly sensible of all
     your sins, and are fully convinced of the meritorious sacrifice
     which God has once made for your sins and those of the whole world,
     I see no reason why your faith should not be so fully fixed on
     these blessed words as to let them be the hope of your heart. It is
     almost impossible for the true penitent to beg to be remembered in
     the kingdom of Christ without experiencing comfort from the
     Saviour's words, 'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.'

     "Death frees us from the dominion of sin; that is, if we die in
     Christ. We are then with Him in Paradise, in that state of
     innocency in which Adam was before he was driven out of the Garden
     of Eden. Our spirits know no fear, since we are in love; and
     'perfect love casts out fear, because fear hath torment.'

     "Your judge, Margaret, will probably tell you to make good use of
     the short time you have to live. I not only tell you this, that you
     may be fortified against your sentence of death, but that you may
     prepare yourself for entering upon another and a better life. I am
     glad to find, by my friend the chaplain, that you have diligently
     applied your whole strength to the Word of God, and have found how
     weak, how wicked, how lost you have been all the days of your life.
     I hope to be able to come and see you, with him, after your return
     from Bury, and to partake with you of spiritual refreshment. Till
     then, my poor servant, I can only pray that you may be rich in
     grace, strong in faith, humble in heart, devout in prayer, lowly
     and contrite in spirit, watchful against all temptation, in love,
     in peace, in charity with all, praying for all: for your judge,
     jury, and fellow-prisoners.

     "Oh that your end may be as you wish it, a warning to all your sex,
     and especially to those in your situation of life, never to let
     passion get the upper hand of virtuous principle! That God may
     fortify you with His spirit, cheer you with His Word, and comfort
     you in death, is the earnest prayer of your former mistress

                                    "And present friend,
                                        "ELIZABETH COBBOLD.

     "To MARGARET CATCHPOLE."


Margaret fed upon the contents of this letter, and followed the advice
given her; and with what effect will be best seen by the account
preserved of her second trial. She went to Bury on the 2nd of August,
and on the 3rd was conducted to the same court, and appeared before the
same judge, as she had done upon her first trial three years before.

The Lord Chief Baron Sir Archibald Macdonald was this time accompanied
by Sir Beaumont Hotham. The juries for the county and liberty were the
following honourable gentlemen:--

      FOR THE COUNTY

      Lord Viscount Broome.

      Charles Berners, jun., Esq.

      B. G. Dillingham, Esq.

      P. J. Thelluson, Esq.

      George Wilson, Esq.

      Matthias Kerrison, Esq.

      Wolfran Lewis, Esq.

      Mileson Edgar, Esq.

      John Cobbold, Esq.

      Edward Studd, Esq.

      Anthony Collet, Esq.

      Joseph Burch Smith, Esq.

      John Farr, Esq.

      John Dresser, Esq.

      William Philpot, Esq.

      James Reeve, Esq.

      Edmund Barber, Esq.

      James Stuttur, Esq.


      FOR THE LIBERTY


      Sir T. C. Bunbury, Bart.

      Sir T. C. Cullum, Bart.

      Sir Harry Parker, Bart.

      Barnard E. Howard, Esq.

      N. Barnadiston, Esq.

      Nathaniel Lee Acton, Esq.

      Capel Lofft, Esq.

      John Mosley, Esq.

      Joshua Grigby, Esq.

      William Mannock, Esq.

      John Wastell, Esq.

      Robert Walpole, Esq.

      Richard Cartwright, Esq.

      Thomas Cocksedge, Esq.

      Thomas Mills, Esq.

      James Oakes, Esq.

      Thomas Gery Cullum,
      Esq.

      Abraham Reeve, Esq.

      George Archer, Esq.

      William B. Rush, Esq., Sheriff.

The usual forms of the court having been gone through, Margaret
Catchpole was again placed at the bar. Margaret was dressed, as
formerly, in a plain blue calico dress. She appeared pale and thin, but
perfectly free from any of that emotion which she formerly exhibited.
There was a calmness of deportment without the least obduracy, and no
obtrusive boldness nor recklessness. She did not look round the court
with any of that anxiety she formerly exhibited, as if she wished to see
any one there who knew her. She knew that Will Laud was gone, and that
neither her father nor her brother was there. She was quite indifferent
to the public gaze, and with her eyes cast down upon the bar, she saw
not that piercing glance which the judge gave her as she took her
station before him, though every person in court noticed it, and looked
at the prisoner to see if she did not quail before it.

The indictment having been read aloud, once more the clerk of the court
addressed her in these terms:

"How say you, prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty?"

Margaret lifted up her dark eyes once more, and looking her judge calmly
in the face, said--

"Guilty, my lord."

There was a perfect stillness in that crowded court, while the judge now
addressed her in the following terms:--

"I cannot address you, prisoner at the bar, in the same strain I
formerly did, since I am persuaded that you are hardened in your
iniquity. I pitied you at that time for your youth; but though young in
years, you are old in crime. I considered you then a person who, if you
had the chance, would form, for the remainder of your days, an estimable
character. In this, however, I have been greatly deceived, and I now
look upon you as a person whom I believe to be dangerous to the morals
of others, and therefore unfit to live. You have shown your sense of the
past mercy extended to you by your bold and daring conduct in breaking
out of prison. I had fully intended to have obtained your discharge from
the Ipswich gaol at these very assizes, had I heard the good report I
received last year confirmed. You may judge, then, of my surprise and
indignation when I heard of your escape from the gaol.

"So bold a woman would make a very bad companion for any man. She who,
after receiving pardon for her past crimes, in the merciful permission
to live when condemned to death, will again be guilty of setting a bad
example to all, instead of a good and reformed one: she who will set at
defiance the laws of her country, and be so bold as to break out of
prison before the period of her confinement had expired, shows such a
disregard to all past and present mercies that she is not worthy to
live.

"You have, I understand, been the occasion of sudden death to one man,
and might have involved others in your guilt. The turnkey of the gaol
might have been severely punished for your delinquency. Your gaoler,
whose duty it is to attend the prisoners to Bury, and of whose absence
you took such a shameful advantage, might have suffered a heavy fine.
You had very nearly eluded his activity, and I consider that great
credit is due to him for the manner in which he recovered you and has
brought you to justice. The magistrates of this county have very
properly applauded his zeal; and I consider it a fortunate thing for
society, that you are not this moment at large in any part of his
Majesty's dominions.

"I will not waste words upon a person so ungrateful as you are. What can
you possibly have to say why sentence should not be passed upon you? You
may say anything you have to say. It cannot be anything good, or in the
least mitigate the severest penalty of the law. Have you anything to
say, prisoner at the bar?"

There was such a still silence in the court at this moment that the
scratch of a pen might have been heard. The barristers all looked up at
the prisoner. Every eye was fixed intently upon her pale face, as she
looked up and made such a composed reply to the Lord Chief Baron's
speech, that one of the most eminent barristers of that day, afterwards
as eminent as a judge, declared it to be the most able and impressive he
had ever, under such circumstances, heard. She spoke with perfect ease,
and apparently without the slightest tremor, and was heard all over the
court.

"My lord, I fully expected that your lordship would condemn me severely
for my present offence. I expected severity; but I did not think that I
should receive the language of judgement without mercy from one whose
former kindness touched my heart. As to my being a hardened offender, I
humbly hope that in this respect your lordship is mistaken. I have
committed two offences against the laws of my country. The first I
acknowledged, not without a sense of its guilt; the second, when I
committed it, I was quite unconscious of the light in which the law
viewed it, and I thought it no crime at all. Had not the arguments of
one wise as your lordship, and a far dearer friend to the prisoner,
convinced me of its enormity, I had this day stood before the court and
felt myself condemned as an innocent person. Thank God, such is not the
case! and your lordship's accusation of my being a hardened offender is
without foundation.

"At this moment of condemnation you refer to your intention of obtaining
my discharge at these assizes. At such a time as this, the expression of
such an intention might have produced extreme bitterness in my heart,
did I not know, that before the last assizes, your lordship received a
memorial, signed by all the magistrates who visited the Ipswich gaol,
praying for my discharge on account of exemplary conduct up to that
time. Had you, then, my lord, attended to that prayer, the offence for
which I am now to suffer the severity of the law would never have been
committed, the life of the man whom it was my fault to love would have
been spared, and I should not have had the anguish of being compelled to
speak as I now do, nor this court the pain of hearing me. The bitterness
then which your reference to my intended discharge would have given me
must remain with your lordship, not with me. You may be well assured, my
lord, that I am not hardened, but penitent. In the twinkling of an eye I
shall meet your lordship at the tribunal of perfect justice, where we
shall both be prisoners at that bar where we shall require, and, I hope,
shall find mercy.

"You could not imagine what I should say, and what I do say is not meant
as a defence of my improper act, but only in justice to those who may
wish me 'God speed' in this court, and who might think from your
lordship's language that I was insensible to their or your lordship's
past kindness. The day will come, and not long after my departure
hence, when your lordship will be convinced that your opinion, now
expressed, was not such as the circumstances of my case warranted or
called for. Your lordship will then clearly see, that through ignorance,
and prompted somewhat beyond the bounds of reason by the force of
gratitude to one whom I too dearly loved, I was induced to attempt to
gain that liberty which I then felt could only be pleasant in his
company.

"Your lordship will, I hope, send me soon to the enjoyment of a liberty
with which no laws of man can interfere. I call no persons to speak to
my character since the period when your lordship received the testimony
of the gaoler, chaplain, and magistrates of the Ipswich division. I
humbly beg pardon of you, my lord, and of all this court, if I have said
anything which may seem disrespectful to you or any persons present; and
I now await your lordship's sentence."

After Margaret had finished speaking, all eyes were turned towards the
judge. The barristers who were present whispered together, and his
lordship caught the sounds of words like these: "Admirable answer!"
"Sensible speech!" "Able reply!" which made the colour come into his
face, and it required some degree of judicial self-possession to
disperse it. He soon resumed, however, his wonted dignity and calmness,
and proceeded to pass sentence upon the prisoner, prefacing the awful
terms with these words:--

"Prisoner at the bar, I am glad to say that my opinion may be altered
with regard to your hardened state; I may lament, also, that the prayer
of that petition made in your behalf was not sooner complied with, as
you expected it would have been. This will not, however, excuse your
crime. It might be sufficient to establish the propriety of your conduct
up to that time, but your subsequent act completely cancelled that
character. You have artfully attempted to throw the blame, which rests
entirely with yourself, upon me as your judge." Here Margaret looked at
him with piercing scrutiny, but uttered not a word. "He will not blame
himself again under similar circumstances, having had such occasion to
blame himself for too great leniency upon your former trial. You are
sufficiently sensible to be aware of the short time you have to live,
and of the necessity of making good use of it. I shall add no more than
the judgement of this court, which is----"

Here the judge passed the sentence in the same awful words as he had
formerly done.

There were many in that court who felt for the prisoner more than the
finest eloquence could express. She received the sentence without any of
those deep feelings which she had formerly exhibited; she looked as
mildly and quietly at the judge as if she had only been receiving his
advice; she curtsied respectfully to him and the court; and then she
firmly receded from the dock, and returned to the care of the gaoler.

It was observed by several persons of the court, that the Lord Chief
Baron did not rally his wonted cheerfulness during the succeeding
business of the day. Whatever may be said of the habit of sternness and
indifference to the real promptings of nature, which men who administer
the laws of their country usually entertain (and a judge is seldom
guilty of any exhibition of human weakness in the act of condemning a
fellow-creature to death), yet Chief Baron Macdonald most certainly did
feel a strange sensation of nervous sensibility with regard to the
unfortunate woman he had that day condemned. He was more abstracted and
thoughtful upon her case than upon any other which came before him. He
could not dismiss it from his mind with his wonted consciousness of
composure. He continually reverted to her extraordinary character
whenever a pause in the business of the court afforded him an
opportunity to speak to the high sheriff, and he was heard to say--

"I should like to examine the spot whence this wonderful woman effected
her escape. The more I think of what I have been told of her, and of
what I have heard from her own lips, the more curious I am to inspect
the gaol. If I have an opportunity before I return to town, I most
assuredly will do so. I wish I could see that woman, and be myself
incog. I could then judge of some things which appear to me inexplicable
in such a person. Whence does she gain such powers of speech, such
simplicity of manners, and yet so truly applicable to her situation?
There must be mind and instruction too!"

The high sheriff, who was a man of the most humane disposition, here
ventured to tell the judge that many of the magistrates thought that her
life would have been spared on account of their former recommendation.
This was quite in private conversation, and only came to light after the
business of the assizes was over. Let whatever influence may have been
exercised with his lordship in behalf of the prisoner, or let it have
been simply his own conviction that mercy would not again be unworthily
extended, before he left Bury her sentence was once more changed from
death to transportation. But this time it was for life, instead of for
seven years or for any fixed period.

Margaret received the announcement of this change without any expression
of joy for herself or thankfulness to her judge. She regretted that she
should have to linger out so many years of her existence in a foreign
land, and when told of it as an act of mercy, she replied "that it was
no mercy to her."




CHAPTER XXVIII

TRANSPORTATION


Margaret returned to Ipswich in a very despondent state of mind; more
so, to all appearance, than if her sentence had not been changed from
death to transportation. Her feelings on this point are strikingly
evinced in the following letter, which she wrote to her mistress soon
after her return to gaol:--

                              "IPSWICH GAOL, August 9th, 1800.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "I am returned from Bury, and I regret to say that I am not to die
     yet. That day is put off--perhaps that I may be swallowed up by the
     sea, or be eaten by the savages of Botany Bay. I am to look forward
     to years of degraded slavery, and to be sent away from my country
     and my friends. I am so sorrowful, my dear lady, that I require
     more of your good advice to learn to live than to learn to die. I
     feel, indeed, as if my judge did it to torment me, and if I had the
     opportunity, I should certainly tell him so. You told me he would
     be severe; he was bitterly so, but it made me feel much less
     grateful to him than I did the first time. Then I thought him like
     you, dear lady, but I see no traces of that resemblance now. His
     words were tormenting, his manners towards me tormenting, and his
     change of sentence is tormenting. I would really have rather been
     left to die, though by the hand of the public executioner, than be
     as I am, soon to be sent out of the country to meet a more
     miserable death. If I never see you more, I shall never forget you.
     I told the judge that but for your friendship I should not have
     been sensible of my sin. He called me a hardened sinner, and said I
     was not fit to live. I wonder, then, that he did not suffer me to
     die. Dear lady, I feel so very low, that if you do not come and
     see me I shall be miserable indeed. Do--oh! pray do, if you can! I
     hope you are suffering less from the effects of your sprain, and
     that I shall see you. Forgive your poor servant's boldness and
     seeming selfishness. I pray earnestly for you and your dear family.
     Oh that I could see the dear Cliff again! So happy was I when I
     first lived there, and so should I be now, could I ever hope to see
     you there again. To be your servant would be something worth living
     for; but to be a slave in a foreign land! Oh! my dear lady! death
     would be preferable to

                                "Your poor servant,
                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "To MRS. COBBOLD, Cliff, Ipswich."

Her letter was dated on Saturday, the 9th August. It may be seen in the
_Ipswich Journal_ of the 16th of August, A. D. 1800, that the Lord Chief
Baron paid a visit to the Ipswich gaol on Tuesday, 12th of August.

He arrived on the morning of that day in his carriage, and was not
personally known to the turnkey. He told the man that he came purposely
to inspect the gaol, and wished particularly to see the spot where
Margaret Catchpole effected her escape.

"Did you fill the office of turnkey at the time?" inquired the visitor.

"I did, sir," replied the man.

"Then you had a very narrow escape; for, had I been the judge to have
tried you, I should have been much inclined to have thought you guilty
of connivance in this matter."

"Then I am very glad, sir, that you are not a judge."

The Lord Chief Baron did not tell him at the moment who he was.

The turnkey was quite ready to show him the way in which the escape had
been made. He set up the frame exactly as he found it on the day of
Margaret's adventure, and showed him the very crotch with which she had
fixed the line on the _chevaux de frise_. The broken spike on the
roller was pointed out, and he informed the judge of the trousers and
smock-frock which the prisoner had manufactured out of the sheets of her
bed. After having examined minutely the place and the frame, and having
heard the full report of the turnkey, he again said--

"What an artful woman she must be to do this, and to be able to deceive
you in the sound of her voice from the adjoining cell!"

"Aye, sir; and had she not confessed this, I should have been puzzled,
up to this hour, to account for her getting out of her cell, as I swore
that I heard her answer from within, before I locked the door."

"She must be a clever person."

"Yes, sir, I believe she is. She owes a very great deal to a lady in
this town, who has taken great pains with her."

"So I have heard," said the stranger. "I would give something to see
that lady. I understand she is the wife of the gentleman from whom she
stole the horse."

"I wish the lady might call while you are here, sir. It is not unlikely
that she may. Pray, sir, were you in court at the time of her trial?"

"Yes, I was."

"Then, perhaps, sir, you could tell us if it be true that she answered
the judge who addressed her in such a manner as to confuse him. Our
folks say that he was completely set, and felt so much surprised as to
be put out by her speech. I do not, of course, know if it be so, but I
heard two of our visiting magistrates talking about it the other day,
and they seemed to say as much as if it was so."

"It did not strike me to be exactly so. The judge was certainly
surprised at what she said, but I do not think he was angry with the
prisoner. Is the woman in her cell at this time?"

"Yes, she is, sir."

"Will you tell Mr. Ripshaw that I should like to examine all the cells
of the prison?"

"Mr. Ripshaw is gone with two prisoners to Portsmouth, sir; but Mrs.
Ripshaw is within, and I can show you the cells."

The Lord Chief Baron followed the turnkey to the door of the governor's
house, which was in the centre of the gaol. At this moment the chaplain,
the Rev. Mr. Sharp, came to pay his visit to the prisoners. The
gentlemen were shown into the parlour, where Mrs. Ripshaw sat, busily
engaged at some of the gaol accounts.

The Lord Chief Baron presented his card to the chaplain, who immediately
explained to Mrs. Ripshaw who it was.

"I am come purposely to inspect the gaol, Mrs. Ripshaw, and I wish to be
quite incog. at present. I have already examined the spot where that
extraordinary woman, Margaret Catchpole, effected her escape; and if
you, sir," addressing himself to the chaplain, "are going to visit her,
and have no objection to my accompanying you, I should like to be
brought in as your friend. You need not address me, but I will join you
in your duties. I wish to see this singular woman, if possible, without
her recognizing me."

"She is, indeed, my lord," replied the chaplain, "a most extraordinary
person. I have found her, up to this second trial, not only tractable,
but intelligent and attentive in the highest degree; but since her
return from Bury, she is disappointed and dissatisfied."

"With what?"

"With her reprieve for transportation."

"With her reprieve! Does the woman really prefer death to life?"

"Your lordship will be the best judge of that by the tenor of our
conversation, if she should not recognize your lordship. And should she
do so, she would not scruple to tell you plainly her opinion."

"I do not think that she can possibly recognize me, if I do not speak to
her, and I shall keep strict silence, if I can."

What a strange alteration do robes and wigs make in the appearance of
men of the law! Who could recognize the Lord Chief Baron of our courts
of law without the robes of his office? Counsel are not recognized even
by their clients when they first see them in their rooms without their
wigs and gowns. No wonder, then, that Margaret Catchpole should take her
judge for some brother clergyman or friend of the chaplain's, when he
entered the cell, and seated himself upon a chair, which the turnkey
placed there for him.

"Well, Margaret," said the chaplain, "I hope you are a little more
reconciled to your prospects than you were when I saw you last."

"I wish I could say I am, sir; but my prospects look very gloomy, and I
feel a great deal more anguish than if I were going to be executed."

"You ought not to do so, Margaret; I consider it a great mercy that your
life is spared."

"Spared! For what, sir? To drag on a wretched life as a felon, and to
live and die, no one knows how or cares, and then to lie in a felon's
grave in a distant land! Here my body would at least have soon rested
beside my friends and relatives. My sufferings would have been short,
and I think I should have been happy. Oh, sir! pray forgive my poor
broken heart; it will give utterance to the language of lamentation. Oh!
that cruel judge! He might have let me die, especially as the bitterness
of death had already passed over me. But he was angry and displeased at
me for speaking, though he asked me if I had anything to say! So he
resolved that I should suffer the most excruciating torture by killing
me by inches in a foreign land! Is this mercy, Mr. Sharp?"

"You look upon this in an unchristian and too gloomy a light. You here
attribute motives to your judge of a very improper kind; such as I am
fully persuaded never entered his mind, and never were inmates of his
breast. I am persuaded his thoughts toward you were those of pity as
well as mercy, and that your change of sentence was meant for your good
and that of others. You have no right to judge of his motives in so
unchristian a light."

"My dear sir, again I say, pardon my speech. I speak as I feel. Perhaps,
with your help, I may feel differently, but I should then speak
differently. Could you, or this gentleman, feel as I do, and were either
of you placed in my situation, you would think and argue very
differently to what you now do. You sit there, both of you, at liberty
to move from this place to the happy associations of kindred, friends,
and home. I grant you, a return to their society sweetens life, and
teaches you to bear your earthly visitations, whatever they may be,
patiently. But let me ask you how you would, either of you, like now to
be afflicted with a long, lingering, painful, bodily disease, which
permitted you only a few moments' rest, and those troubled and broken,
and disturbed by horrid dreams; that, when you awoke each day, it was
only to a sense of increased pain? How would you like years of such
increased agony? Tell me, would you not prefer a happier, shorter, and
speedier termination of your sufferings than that long distant one which
must come at last after years of weariness and pain? Yet you find fault
with me because I would rather die now than live many years in all the
horrors of slavery, and then die without a friend near me!"

"Still I think you wrong, Margaret. You seem to argue as if we had a
choice of our own in these matters, and forget that it must be God's
will, and not our own, to which we must submit."

"Is it God's will, or is it man's will, that I should lead a life of
misery?"

"This question almost makes me think you impious, Margaret. It is God's
will that you should live, and I hope for some good: at all events, it
is for some wise purpose of His own, either that you may become an
instrument of His righteousness or mercy in His hands, or that you may
be an example to others. As to the misery you talk of, that will depend
much upon your own future individual conduct and character. I have
heard that some receive pardon in that country for their good conduct,
and they settle in the land; and instead of being slaves, they become
useful members of society."

"That may perhaps be the case with some, sir; but I am looking at my own
present state, and I cannot believe that my judge had any such mercy in
his view when he changed my sentence from present momentary suffering to
such future wretchedness."

"Of that you can know nothing, neither ought you to take your present
state as any other than that of God's decree by His agent, the judge.
How can you ascertain the motives of any man's heart? I do firmly
believe that your judge decided most mercifully and righteously in your
case. He might really think that if you were removed from this country,
you might be instrumental in doing much good. He might hope that, under
different circumstances of life, from the very natural force of your
character taking another bias, you might become a blessing to yourself
and others."

"And so, because I yielded to temptation when I had so many good friends
around me, he would throw me into the very midst of temptation, where I
have not one friend to help me. Oh! Mr. Sharp, would it not be far
better to choose present release, when such kind friends are near me,
than future death, when no comforter or friend can be near?"

"And is not your God near you, Margaret, in every place, unless you
drive Him away by your wickedness? But how can you tell that He may not
raise up some benevolent friend to help you in that country to which you
are going? I hope for the best. At all events, you must cherish better
feelings towards your judge than those you now possess, or your state
will be dreadful indeed wherever you may be. You seem to have forgotten
all the Christian lessons which your dear mistress and I have taken such
pains to teach you."

"I would not be ungrateful, sir, though I may now appear, as I am, so
unhappy. I will try by prayer to conquer the prejudice you speak of. I
do suffer such extreme horror in my mind from my view of the future,
that there is no rest for me by night or day. I see nothing but chains
and darkness. I think sometimes of the long, long journey from my native
land, of the dangers of the sea, of the companions with whom I may be
mixed. I start sometimes in my dreams, and fancy a great shark dashing
at me in the waters. Another time I see the native cannibals ready to
devour me. Then I think of home, of you, sir, of dear Dr. Stebbing, of
my uncle and aunt, and of my dearest mistress, and I find my
prison-pillow is wet with my nightly tears."

The tears started in more eyes than her own, as she spoke, in her
touching simplicity, of these acute feelings. She suffered intensely;
and it took many months of rational and devout conversation, on the part
of both her mistress and this worthy man, to eradicate those bitter
seeds of despair, and to sow those of cheerfulness and hope. After
directing Margaret's mind to Christian duties, the chaplain and the
judge left her cell. They conversed some time upon her state of mind and
future prospects. The judge declared that he thought her one of the most
sensitive persons he had ever seen, with a mind capable of the highest
cultivation. He left five guineas with the chaplain to be laid out for
her benefit. He stated that she would not, in all probability, leave
England till the next summer, and hoped to hear a better account of her
some future day. Margaret was not informed of the person who had visited
her that day with the chaplain, until she had learned to look upon him
and herself in a very different light.

The Lord Chief Baron visited all the cells of the prison, and expressed
his approbation of the cleanliness and neatness of the whole place. As
he was going away, he told the turnkey that he was the very judge who
had tried the female prisoner for breaking out of gaol. The reader may
imagine how frightened the poor fellow was at his late boldness of
speech. The judge observed his embarrassment, and told him that he had
spoken nothing improper; that he had done his duty, and deserved his
thanks.

"You may tell your master," he added, "that I am so well satisfied with
the appearance of all things under his care, that when I return to town
I shall not fail to give a favourable report of the state of the gaol
and of his discipline." He made the turnkey a present, and left the
gaol.

It was not until May, 1801, that Margaret Catchpole was informed of the
day of her departure for Botany Bay. She had been instructed in many
things relating to the country to which she was going, and her kind
mistress had purchased an assortment of useful articles for her future
employment. Her mind had been gradually divested of its miserable
horrors, and became fortified for the occasion. It will be seen,
however, that as the near approach of the day came, she dreaded and
lamented it bitterly. On the 25th of May, 1801, Mrs. Cobbold received
the following note from her:--


                                        "IPSWICH GAOL, May 25th, 1801.

     "DEAR AND HONOURED MADAM,

     "I am sorry to have to inform you of the bad news. I am going away
     on Wednesday next, or Thursday at the latest, so I have taken the
     liberty of troubling you with these few lines. It will be the last
     time I shall ever trouble you from this place of sorrowful, yet,
     comparatively with the future, blessed captivity. My grief is very
     great, now that I am really on the eve of banishment from my own
     country and from all my dearest friends for ever. It was hard for
     me ever to think of it. Oh! what must it be to endure it! Honoured
     madam, it would give me some happiness to see you once more, on the
     Tuesday previous to my leaving England for ever, if you will not
     think this request of mine too troublesome. I know your kind heart.
     I would spare you any anxiety about so unworthy a person as
     myself, but I must entreat your goodness to consider me in this my
     severest misery. Have pity upon me! Oh! do come! Only let me see
     your dear face once more, and it will ever be a comfort and
     satisfaction to your poor unhappy servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "To MRS. COBBOLD, Cliff, Ipswich."


On Tuesday, the 26th of May, this benevolent lady paid poor Margaret her
last visit. She felt that it would be the last time she should ever see
her in this world. It was a painful interview, and one that she would
have spared herself, had it not been for the hope of comforting the mind
of her disconsolate servant. She found her seated upon the chest which
she had sent her from the Cliff a few days before. Her eyes were swollen
with weeping; and, as she rose to meet her beloved mistress, she
trembled and tottered from the weakness of agitation. Her mistress
gently seated her again, and took her seat beside her.

"Oh! my dear lady!" she began, "my time is come, and I feel just as if
my heart would burst. Surely this must be worse than death!"

"Do not say so, Margaret. Remember all the advice I have given you, and
I have no doubt that you will find yourself rewarded with different
treatment to that which you expect."

"But I shall never see you nor any of my dear friends again. This is my
sorrow."

"But we shall hear from you often, Margaret."

"And shall I hear from you, dear lady? Will you remember me? Will you
not forget your poor servant? Oh! she will never forget you, never cease
to bless you!"

"I will write to you, Margaret, as soon as I hear of your arrival."

"Bless you, dear lady! God bless you! But when I look at you, and think
of your dear face, it is like the sun for ever hidden from my sight
when you leave me."

"The same sun, Margaret, will shine upon us both. He will visit you
while I am asleep, and me when you are at rest. The same God who causes
him to shine upon us all will be, as he is, alike merciful to us both,
though we live in different lands. Let me entreat you, as my last solemn
injunction, never to forget your duty to Him. Read your Bible whenever
you can. You will have much time and opportunity upon your voyage, and I
hope you will employ them to the best purposes. You will find in your
chest many good books. They will be a great source of comfort to you."

"Oh! that I will, dear lady! and when I think of you who gave them to
me, and of the dear friends who have visited me, and of that good lady
you introduced to my cell, Mrs. Sleorgin, who brought me yesterday this
packet of books. Oh! how dearly shall I desire to see you and them!"

"Think, too, Margaret, what pleasure it will give us all to hear that
you are doing well, that all the instructions of your kind friends have
not failed. You will be able to add greatly to my comfort by this. You
will also add to my knowledge many things of which I have at present
very imperfect information. You will inform me of the state of that new
country. Surely this will give you some pleasure, and profit me also."

"Dear lady! you are so good! You make me almost wish to live, if only
for the pleasure of serving you. If it were but permitted me to come to
England once more, I do think my journey would seem nothing to me. It
looks such a dreary prospect to be deprived of all whom we love, that I
feel faint at the idea of loneliness in a foreign land."

"Exercise your faith, Margaret, and you will never be alone. All lands
will be pleasant to you."

"None so pleasant as my own: but I will try, I do try, I will hope. You
are so kind to me, my dear mistress! Give my duty to my good master; my
love to all the dear, dear children. Oh! forgive me, my dear lady! I
cannot help crying; tears do me good."

Those friends (for so, in spite of the difference in their station and
their character, we must venture to call them) parted from each other
for the last time on earth; but they lived to correspond, by letter, for
many years after, and both felt an increased interest for each other's
happiness.

The hour of Margaret's departure arrived. The worthy chaplain was the
last person whom Margaret saw in the cell of her prison. Her uncle and
aunt Leader saw her the day before. The worthy chaplain presented her
with the remainder of the judge's present. She had long learned to look
upon his sentence in a different light to that in which she had once
viewed it; and now, with feelings greatly subdued, she knelt with the
good chaplain, and prayed earnestly that she might never forget the
lessons he had given her. She prayed fervently for pardon for all her
sins, and that she might for ever leave them behind her, and thenceforth
lead a new and better life. Then, turning to Mr. Sharp, she said--

"One favour more, sir: your blessing."

"May God bless you, Margaret," said the good chaplain, "and make you,
for the remainder of your days, an instrument of good, to His own glory
and the benefit of your fellow-creatures! Amen. Farewell."

On Wednesday, May 27, Mr. Ripshaw left Ipswich with three female
prisoners in his charge, Margaret Catchpole, Elizabeth Killet, and
Elizabeth Barker. He took them to Portsmouth, and saw them safe on board
the convict-ship, bound for Botany Bay.

Margaret had not left the New Gaol, two hours before the turnkey was
summoned to the lodge, and opened the door to a tall, thin man, dressed
in the poorest garb, who with a voice soft and gentle, meek and
melancholy, requested to see Margaret Catchpole.

"She is just departed with the governor for Portsmouth. Who are you?"

"I am her brother. My misfortunes are indeed heavy: I am just returned
from India. I find my father gone, my brothers gone, and this my only
sister, worse than all! Oh, bitter cup! gone in disgrace from the
country!"

"Pray walk this way. I will introduce you to our chaplain, and some
consolation may be found for you."

The melancholy truth was soon explained. Charles Catchpole, alias Jacob
Dedham, alias Collins Jaun, the spy, whom the reader may recognize as
mentioned in a former part of this history, returned to his native
country literally a beggar. He went out to India, and, upon his arrival
in that country, his friend, Lord Cornwallis, had resigned his high
office, and returned to England. The account he gave of himself was
singularly eventful. He assumed the appearance of a native chief, joined
some of the roving tribes of warlike adventurers, and became a
conspicuous character. He fell in love with a nabob's daughter, and
married her according to the national customs and ceremonies; but his
ill-assorted match did not long prosper. His origin and connexion with
the English were discovered, and the spy had to fly the country for his
life. He escaped, gained his passage home, and had spent his last
shilling in the very public-house at St. Mary Elms where he received his
first as an enlisted recruit. His case was that day mentioned to several
individuals, amongst others to Edward Bacon, Esq., who had spent many
years in India, who pronounced him no impostor. He employed him many
days in taking a view of Ipswich and its environs, which he did with
extraordinary accuracy, from Savage's windmill on Stoke Hills. This view
was presented by that gentleman to the author of these pages, and it
presents all the striking accuracy and patient persevering
characteristics of a self-taught artist.

By his own industry, and the generosity of others, he gained a few
pounds, with which he determined to settle in one of the colonies. He
obtained a passage to the Cape of Good Hope; but the poor fellow met
with a severe accident in falling down the hold of the vessel, broke his
back, and died upon the passage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus ended the career of Margaret Catchpole in England, where her
virtues will long be remembered, together with her crimes. What remains
of her history will serve to show what fruits may be gathered from a
faithful spirit, a good heart, a high courage, and a strong
understanding, when disciplined in the school of adversity, and under
the guidance of good principles, seasonably instilled by kind and
judicious monitors. It will be seen that her chief temptation having
been mercifully removed, a true repentance, and an entire alteration of
life and character, entitled her to the full forgiveness, and even
approbation, of her fellow-creatures.




CHAPTER XXIX

BANISHMENT


The first news which reached England concerning Margaret was contained
in a letter written by herself, by which it appears she had obtained a
situation at the Orphan Asylum; and, as it will best explain her
feelings and situation at that time, the reader shall be furnished with
a copy of it. The sheet upon which it is written contains two letters;
one to her mistress, directed to her master; the other to Dr. Stebbing.

                                   "SYDNEY, Jan. 21st, 1802.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "With pleasure I cannot describe, I am permitted to take up my pen
     and write to you, to acquaint you with my arrival in safety at Port
     Jackson, Sydney, New South Wales, on December 20, 1801. As I left
     the ship, and was about to be landed, the shore, as I approached
     it, put me very much in mind of the Cliff on the banks of the river
     Orwell. The houses, backed by the hills, so much resembled that
     happy spot, that it put me in good spirits; and had I but seen your
     smile to welcome me, I should have been happy indeed. But I thought
     of you, of your prayers, your advice, your kindness and
     consolation; and when I saw land so much like my own dear native
     home, I really felt as if I was not entirely banished from old
     England.

     "Your advice relative to my conduct on board the convict-ship was
     strictly followed; and every morning I prayed that I might keep it,
     and every evening I thanked God for his help. I had much influence
     with the female convicts who came out with me, and prevented many
     murmurs and one outbreak among them. So that, you see, dear lady,
     others reaped the benefit of your instructions as well as myself.

     "Captain Sumpter gave me a good character to the governor; so that
     I was not two days upon the stores, but was taken off them by Mr.
     John Palmer, a gentleman of the highest respectability in the
     colony. He came out as purser in the _Sirius_, with Captain Arthur
     Phillip and Captain John Hunter, in January, 1787. Captain Phillip
     was the first governor of this place. Mrs. Palmer is very kind to
     me, and is as benevolent as yourself. She is a niece of a famous
     physician in London, Sir William Blizzard; and she says, dear lady,
     that she has heard her uncle speak of you. Only think that I should
     be so fortunate as to find a good mistress, who had some knowledge
     of you, even in this distant land! I feel this a great blessing.

     "After the loss of the _Sirius_, on a reef off Norfolk Island, Mr.
     and Mrs. Palmer undertook the management of the Female Orphan
     Asylum. This institution was established by Governor King, who
     purchased, for the residence of my master and mistress, the elegant
     house in which they now live, of Lieutenant Kent, who returned to
     England two years since in the _Buffalo_. He had built it entirely
     at his own expense, but he found that the country did not agree
     with him.

     "You know, my dear lady, how fond I always was of children, and
     here I have many cheerful young faces around me. We have already
     sixty female children, who are taken as good care of as if they
     were all one family belonging to Mrs. Palmer. So you see how
     happily I am employed. Have I not reason to be thankful to God for
     His great mercies to so unworthy a creature as myself? I know you
     will rejoice to hear of my situation. You desired me to write
     anything I could for your instruction. I wish my opportunities were
     greater, that my letter might be more entertaining; but Mrs. Palmer
     has afforded me some facilities, and I hope, when I write again, to
     give you the benefit of them.

     "This country is much more like England than I expected to find it.
     Garden-stuff of all kinds, except gooseberries, and currants, and
     apples, are abundant. The gardens, too, are remarkably beautiful;
     the geraniums run up seven or eight feet in height, and look more
     magnificent than those which I used to see in your own greenhouse.
     The country is very woody, so that I cannot go out any distance
     from Sydney without travelling through woods for miles. They are
     many of them very picturesque, and quite alive with birds, of such
     exquisite plumage that the eye is constantly dazzled by them.

     "I assure you, my dear lady, that, in taking a ramble through them
     with my mistress and some of the elder orphans, I felt just as I
     imagine your own dear children used to feel when they walked with
     me to the Grove near Hog Island, I was so pleased with the birds,
     and trees, and flowers. I only wish I could send you one of the
     beautiful parrots of this country, but I have no means of so doing
     at present, as my money is all laid out for my future benefit. I
     have no money given to me for wages. I have board and lodging; and,
     if I conduct myself well, Mrs. Palmer says she will lay up a little
     store against the day of my emancipation or my marriage. With
     God's help, in whom I trust, I am determined to be independent of
     all men. I have no desire to be married and settled, as some people
     seem to say I shall be. I have no wish of the kind, neither do I
     now nor do I hope to desire any better situation than that I now
     enjoy, unless it were a return to England.

     "I grieve to say, my dear lady, that this is one of the wickedest
     places in the world. I never heard of one, excepting those of Sodom
     and Gomorrah, which could come up to it in evil practices. People
     are so bold, so shameless, and so sinful, that even crime is as
     familiar as fashion in England. Religion is the last thing thought
     of, even by the government, which sends out criminals that most
     want it. The Rev. Mr. Johnson, who is almost the only clergyman in
     the whole country, comes frequently to the Foundling Asylum; but he
     tells my mistress that the town of Sydney is like a place of
     demons. Government is at great expense in the police establishment,
     to keep our poor bodies in subjection; but I am sure, if our souls
     were but a little more thought of, government would find us ten
     thousand times better subjects.

     "Is it not dreadful, dear lady, that in such a country as this so
     many souls should utterly perish? Surely it will never be blessed
     with the blessing from Heaven, until God shall induce our
     government to send us out some able ministers of the Gospel. I will
     write more upon this subject at another time. I trust in God, who
     has brought me over the broad sea, that He will keep me from all
     evil upon this wide land.

     "The wheat harvest was almost over when I landed. Wheat is here
     eight shillings per bushel at this time. There are two crops, I
     understand, each summer, one of wheat and another of Indian corn. I
     am told that the winter is very short; I cannot give you any
     certain information yet, as I have been only one month in the
     country. This letter, for the same reason, will be but a poor one;
     my next will, I hope, be more worthy your perusal. I will make
     minutes, according to your wishes, of all things which come under
     my observation. Never, never, my dearest lady, shall I forget your
     goodness to me, and especially on the last day before I left
     Ipswich.

     "All the things you gave me arrived in safety with me, and are of
     great service to me. Oh! how I wish that many poor creatures, whom
     I see around me, had some of the blessings which I have! There are
     some who have been here for years, who have their poor heads
     shaved, and are sent up the Coal River. They have to carry coals
     from daylight until dark. They are badly fed; and though very bad
     men, who actually sell their rations of bread for three days for a
     little rum, yet they ought not to be left without instruction, as
     they totally are, until they perish.

     "Norfolk Island is a terrible place to be sent to. Those only who
     are incorrigible are sent to this place, with a steel collar round
     their necks, to work in gangs.

     "I have no government work to do; nor has the officer of government
     anything to do with me. When there is a general muster of the
     convicts, then only I shall have to appear, and give account of
     myself. Some days I am permitted to go and see a friend at a
     distance, if I have any, either at Paramatta, twenty miles, Gabley,
     thirty, or Hawkesbury, forty miles from Sydney; but then I shall
     have to get a passport, or I should be taken up, and put into
     prison as a runaway. A very little will get a person into prison
     here; but it requires a great deal of interest to get him out
     again.

     "I want to say a great deal more, but time will not permit me, for
     I expect the ship to sail very soon, I have been very ill since I
     came on shore. At one time I was thought to be dying; but by the
     blessing of God and the attentions of my mistress, I am now strong
     again. I was very well during my whole voyage, though we were
     tossed about tremendously in the Bay of Biscay. I was very glad to
     see land, after so many months' confinement; yet I should not mind
     just such another voyage at this moment, if it were but to bring me
     back again to dear old England. I cannot say yet that I like this
     country, or that I think I ever shall; God only knows. The governor
     has a great many very beautiful cows, and so has Mr. Palmer, who is
     very partial to agricultural pursuits. There are a great many
     horses at Sydney, and some very neat whiskeys and little
     clay-carts. There are a great many passage-boats, but all numbered
     and registered, and secured, lest the convicts should use them to
     attempt their escape.

     "Pray, my dear madam, let good Doctor Stebbing have the other side
     of this sheet. I hope this will find you and all your good family
     well. Pray, my dear lady, do not forget your promise of writing to
     me by the first transport-ship that comes out; and direct to me at
     Mr. Palmer's, Female Orphan Asylum, Sydney; and with deep love to
     all my friends, I remain

                                "Your faithful servant,
                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE."

The following is her letter to Dr. Stebbing, written on the same sheet
of paper:--

     "DEAR SIR,

     "This is to acquaint you with our safe landing at Sydney, on the
     20th of December, and that we all arrived in good health. Barker
     bore the voyage the worst of the three, and was so terrified at the
     sea that she could scarcely bear to look at it; and whenever it was
     rough she would never be persuaded to come on deck. She used
     frequently to cry out that she wished you were near her. She is
     just the same as ever, now she is on land: I regret to say, no
     better. Elizabeth Killet lives very near to me, and is very well.
     She and I were both taken off the stores on the same day. We have
     not to go to government work, as the horses do; but we have both
     obtained respectable places, and I hope we shall continue in them.

     "I am sorry to say that Barker has to spin for government, her
     character not being such as to deserve a good report: she is still
     upon the stores. But she can get her stint of work done by one
     o'clock if she chooses to work hard at it, and then her time is her
     own till six. Pray, sir, give my kind remembrance to all my
     fellow-prisoners, and tell any of them that may be sentenced to
     come out to this country not to be dead-hearted, as I was, about
     Botany Bay; for if they are sent out, and will only conduct
     themselves well, they will be better off than in prison.

     "The greater part of this country is not yet explored; and if
     inhabited, it is by natives of a very low caste and hideous
     features. Those that I have already seen are of a very ferocious
     aspect. They carry along with them spears of great length, made of
     hard wood, and a sort of hatchet, made of bone, stone, or very hard
     wood. They look half-starved, and have very long, lank visages,
     most hideously distorted by various customs; such as knocking out a
     front tooth to denote their arrival at manhood, painting their
     brows, and putting quills through the cartilage which separates the
     nostrils of their wide-distended noses.

     "Their females, I am told, are in a very degraded condition, and
     are generally stolen from other tribes, and brutally treated, being
     beaten into immediate subjection by their husbands, who steal them.
     The men seem to me a very subtle race. If they meet an unarmed
     white man at a distance from home, they will spear and rob him.
     They behave themselves well enough when they come into the town,
     and visit, as they do sometimes, the Female Orphan Asylum, where I
     live. If they did not they would soon be punished; still they are
     very sly and treacherous, and can take up things with their long
     toes as easily as we do the same with our hands.

     "They often have a grand fight among themselves, either to gratify
     their leader or to settle some dispute between the tribes. Twenty
     or thirty join in the fight, whilst all the others look on, as if
     it was only a game of play; but some of them are sure to be killed.
     There is nothing said or done to them for killing each other in
     this manner. What horrible barbarians they must be!

     "The crops of wheat are very good in this country. Forty bushels
     per acre are commonly grown; it is a very fertile place, and
     fruitful in every respect. I will write more fully of the country
     another time. Population increases rapidly. Some things, which we
     cannot obtain, are very dear: tea is 25_s._ per pound; sugar,
     2_s._; salt beef, 1_s._; and mutton, 2_s._ per pound. A pair of
     shoes, 15_s._; 10_s._ a pair of stockings; 5_s._ for a yard of
     common print; calico, 3_s._ per yard; soap, 3_s._ per pound;
     onions, 6_d._ per pound; potatoes, 2_d._ per pound; a cabbage,
     6_d._; rum, 5_s._ per bottle; a quart of porter, 2_s._ Fish is as
     cheap as anything we can buy; but we have no money here to trade
     with.

     "Pray, my dear sir, remember me to Mrs. Ripshaw, and tell her that
     one of Mr. Ripshaw's daughters, who lives up in the country here,
     paid a visit to the Orphan Asylum last week. She asked me, when she
     heard my voice, if I was not a Suffolk woman. This led to my
     knowledge of her being the daughter of Mr. Ripshaw's first wife.
     Pray, write to me as soon as you can. I shall never forget your
     goodness to me, from the day I rode the pony to your door till the
     day I left Ipswich. I shall never forget your dear daughter, so
     clever, so kind to every one. Remember me to your faithful servant,
     who was such a friend to me, and give my duty to all inquiring
     friends. We had not a single death in our ship, though we had near
     two hundred females on board.

     "Just as I am writing this a messenger has come flying into the
     town to say that the Blacks have killed eight men, women, and
     children. One man's arms they have cut, and broke his bones, and
     have done the same by his legs up to his knees. The poor fellow is
     just now carried past to the hospital, but he looked more dead than
     alive, and death would be a blessing to him. The governor has sent
     out troops after them, with orders to shoot all they can find. I
     hope I may be able to give you a better account of the natives when
     I write again. Pray send me word if you know where Dinah Parker
     and her child were sent to. Give my love to my uncle and aunt
     Leader. My brother Edward should not have deserted me; I always
     loved him affectionately. God bless you, dear doctor, and direct
     your letter to me at Mr. John Palmer's, Female Orphan Asylum,
     Sydney; and ever think of me as your faithful and humble servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "To JOHN COBBOLD, ESQ., Cliff, Ipswich.
             "Favoured by CAPTAIN SUMPTER."

By her good conduct in her new situation as cook and superintendent over
the dairy of Mr. John Palmer, she was found to be a very useful and
confidential person, and was soon looked upon as likely to be a very
valuable wife for a free settler. Her fondness for children, and her
management of them, came under the particular notice of Mrs. Palmer,
who, without any family of her own, had from the most humane and
benevolent motives undertaken the entire management of the Orphan
Asylum. She found Margaret as willing and as well qualified an assistant
as she could wish for.

This school was founded in the year 1800, by Governor King. It was for
sixty female orphans. A grant of 15,000 acres of land was given to this
foundation for the maintenance and support of the children. They were to
be educated usefully and respectably, brought up to industrious habits,
and to receive the best religious instruction which could be obtained
for them. Few things in Sydney gave such general satisfaction as this
benevolent institution; few things at that period more tended to the
amelioration of the conduct of those who, from being the offscourings of
such a densely-peopled country as England, were of course so deeply
depraved as to be very difficult to recover from their evil habits.
Destitute female children were taken into this establishment. A portion
was given to each one brought up in this place of 100 acres of land, on
her marriage-day, provided she married a free settler, and was herself a
good character. This was a great inducement for the elder ones to set a
good example, as well as to induce young free men to be approved of by
the governor as worthy to receive so great a boon. Hence, in later days,
have arisen many sterling characters in the neighbourhood of Sydney.

In this benevolent arrangement, the governor was mainly prompted and
assisted by a free settler, who had been eight years in the colony, and
was one of the first who arrived in the _Bellona_ transport, in 1793,
and settled upon a spot then called Liberty Plains. This was no other
than the reader's friend, and we hope his favourite, John Barry, whose
steady and upright character was observed by the governor; he was taken
into his confidence, and was a most admirable pattern for all settlers.
For his strict integrity and early business habits, he was chosen as the
great government agent for the distribution of lands; and he it was who
suggested to Governor King the plan of forming this Orphan
Establishment. In the sale of every 180 acres to free settlers, this
gentleman was allowed a certain percentage, which in a short time
realized to him a considerable property, in addition to that which he
had already acquired.

John Barry was also the first to propose, and to assist with his wealth,
the building of the first church, that of St. John's, at Sydney. He
often lamented that government would not make a noble grant of land for
church purposes, and in that early day he tried hard for a public grant
for the Church of England, and mourned over the supineness of colonial
legislation upon such a vital subject. Had this good man lived but to
see the arrival of a British Bishop of Australia, it would have added
one more joy to the many which his good conduct provided for him;
indeed, he always said that such would be the case. Mr. Barry had a very
handsome house at Windsor, on the green hills of Hawkesbury; also a fine
estate, consisting of the most extensive pastures and the finest corn
district in the whole region.

John Barry had kept his solemn word with Margaret, and had never entered
into any matrimonial alliance, though he was looked upon as the most
eligible match in the whole colony.

And this was the person formerly known to the reader as Jack Barry, the
young farming lad, the son of the miller at Levington Creek, on the
River Orwell. With small means, good introductions, steady conduct, and
active habits, this youth rose from the day he purchased his first
hundred acres in the colony until the day of his death. Two of his
sisters had gone out to him before Margaret's committal to prison for
any offence, and all that they could tell him of her was that she was at
service at the Cliff at Ipswich, and that Laud was in the British navy.
This gave him unfeigned pleasure, though it did not permit him to hope
that he should ever see Margaret.

Had he been certified of Laud's death, there is little doubt that he
would have returned to England. But his own family, in their
correspondence with him, never mentioned either one or the other person.

Indeed, after Margaret became so notorious in the county of Suffolk,
they never named her to him, or sent him the papers which mentioned any
word concerning her. He very seldom named her to his sisters. He knew
nothing of her career, and she had actually been living some years
within a short distance of his own residence in Australia, without his
either seeing or hearing anything of her. In her most confidential
communications with Mrs. Palmer, she had never mentioned his name, or an
explanation must have taken place. She had the narrowest chance of
meeting him in July, 1803, when Mr. Barry came to inspect the Asylum. A
day only before he came, Margaret had been sent to a free settler's, a
relation of Mrs. Palmer's, who had the misfortune to lose his wife, and
being left with two very small children, he wanted a person like
Margaret to take care of them, and to superintend his domestic concerns.
Mrs. Palmer consented to let Margaret go, if she would, at least for a
time, until her relative could meet with an eligible person. This
gentleman's name was Poinder, and his house was at Richmond Hill.
Margaret did not raise any objection, though all felt sorry to part with
her from the Asylum; she went to oblige her mistress, and received a
handsome present from her at parting.

The first money which this faithful creature received was devoted to the
purchase of many curious things for her dear mistress in England. These
she treasured up, anticipating the pleasure of forwarding them from
Sydney, when she had obtained sufficient to fill a chest.

Though many letters and presents had been sent from her friends in
England, it would appear by a letter to her uncle Leader, dated December
20, 1804, that she never received any of them. That uncle conveyed her
letter to Mrs. Cobbold, who took a copy of it, from which it is here
transcribed. Three years had passed away since the date of her first
letter, and the poor creature had been vexed greatly at the non-arrival
of any tidings from her friends.

                                "SYDNEY, December 20th, 1804.

     "MY DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT,

     "With great pleasure I once more take up my pen to write to you,
     and all your dear children, as well as all inquiring friends,
     hoping that they may all be in as good health as I am at the time
     this letter leaves this country. I bless God, dear uncle, for his
     past and present mercies towards me, which have been and are very
     great. I am as young as I ever was; indeed I may say that I am in
     spirit, if not in body, younger, freer, and happier, than I ever
     was at any former period of my life. I should be almost ready to
     jump over St. John's Church, which is the first church built in
     this country, if I could only hear from you, or some of my dear
     friends in England. You may well suppose how overjoyed I should be
     to snatch up any tidings of any of you.

     "I cannot think why I have not heard from some of you. England is,
     I know, in a very disturbed state and engaged in a maritime war.
     This is the fourth time I have written. I sent a letter by Captain
     Sumpter, on the return of the vessel I came by; my next I sent by
     the _Glutton_, and my next by the _Calcutta_. I did hope that I
     should have received a letter before this time. My anxieties have
     been so great as almost to make me go out of my mind; for I see so
     many letters arriving from London, but none for poor me. I should
     be unhappy indeed if I thought that no friends in England cared for
     me.

     "I am so grieved and disappointed that my dearly loved mistress has
     not written to me once since we parted! I cannot bring myself to
     believe that if she is alive, and is able, she has not already done
     so. I fear that some accident has occurred to the ship by which she
     has written to me, and that she is waiting for some reply. Do not
     neglect me this time, dear uncle, for it makes me very unhappy to
     think that I cannot hear from you, or any of my friends in England.

     "I am in great hopes that, if I continue in the same state that I
     am now in, and, if it please God, have the same approbation of my
     employers, who are high in the governor's favour, I shall have the
     unspeakable joy of seeing you all again. The thought of such a
     blessing makes my hand tremble, and the tears run down my cheeks so
     fast, I cannot see the end of my pen. Governor King is a very good
     man; he is very merciful to those who deserve it, even to those who
     are, as I am, transported for life. There are many who have been
     granted their free pardon with power to settle in the colony. Some
     who have distinguished themselves by exemplary conduct, and have
     rendered public service to the settlement, not only receive their
     free pardon, but are permitted to return, if they wish it, to their
     native land. The anticipation of such an event would prompt me to
     any service.

     "The young man who brings this letter to England was transported
     for life. He was in the governor's service, and discovered a
     robbery of the government stores, for which he has received a full
     and free pardon. He lived one year at John Palmer's, Esq., where I
     have been living; his name is William Underwood. He was very much
     approved while in my master's service, and was taken thence into
     the governor's establishment. He is a good young man, and was
     betrayed into a crime by a butler, who employed him to rob his
     master, in London. He promises to convey this letter to England,
     and to post it for you, so that I do hope this will certainly come
     to hand.

     "I have left Mrs. Palmer's service for a time, at her own
     particular request, and am now living as housekeeper to a young
     friend of hers, who married her niece. He is a free settler. His
     wife was a very sickly lady, and had, since she resided in this
     spot, fallen into a rapid decline; indeed she was in a poor state
     of health during her sea-voyage. She was a good and amiable lady,
     and her loss is a great misfortune to the young man, and much
     sorrow to my dear Mrs. Palmer.

     "The free settlers are the great farmers of this country; they have
     one hundred acres of land as a grant, with power to purchase as
     many more as they can; they have to clear away the woods, and burn
     up the stumps, before they can grow corn, though the swine thrive
     well in the thick bush. We begin to set wheat in March or April,
     and the harvest comes on in November; and as soon as that is
     cleared off, they set fire to the stubble, and burn it on the land,
     and then put in fresh corn directly. They do not plough it, but
     dibble the corn in without cleaning it, as the burning straw
     destroys the roots of all the weeds.

     "In clearing new land, it is broken up by men with very large hoes,
     and it is the hardest work that is done in the country. A great
     price is paid for this labour, and men work too hard at it. They
     frequently destroy their health and their lives, by their
     over-exertion to get rich enough to buy farms for themselves. This
     has been done by some robust men, but others fall a prey to the
     toil.

     "This is a very dangerous country at present to settle in. The
     natives, who are almost black, wear no covering, but go, most of
     them, in a state of nudity. They paint their bodies with a
     light-coloured ochre, marking out the ribs and bones so strongly,
     that at a little distance in the shade they look like so many
     moving skeletons. They are a most miserable, half-starved race of
     men, but very active, very treacherous, and very bold. They seem to
     have no shame. They used to bear a deadly hatred to the white
     people; and if all I hear be true of some of the dealings of our
     colonists with these poor wretches, I am not surprised at it.

     "They are much more reconciled to us than they were, and actually
     send some of their young children to be instructed in our schools.
     I do not think, however, that the race will ever amalgamate with
     our own, it appears such an inferior and unsettled one. As we
     advance our settlers towards the Blue Mountains, these people will
     recede from us, and being divided into many tribes hostile to each
     other, will never be able to unite their forces against us.

     "This country is full of curious animals. I have already collected
     some skins for my dear mistress at the Cliff. I never get a fresh
     one without blessing her name, and hoping that, poor as I am, I may
     yet give her some little pleasure.

     "Among the snakes, few are venomous. I have seen but one, which I
     am told is a very dangerous foe. Him I had a personal conflict
     with, and thank God I came off victorious. I was walking with two
     young children of my master's, not very far from the newly-enclosed
     lands. The children were a few yards in advance of me, gathering
     flowers for me, when a large black snake flew at me from the foot
     of a tree, just as if it had been a dog. I had nothing in my hand
     but a thin stick which I had broken off one of the fresh shoots of
     a stump of a tree, which had been cut down the last winter; but I
     was afterwards told that it was the very best weapon of defence
     that I could have. He rose upon his tail, and darted at my face,
     as if he aimed at my eyes; but just as he came within reach, I gave
     him a cut over a white line at the back of his neck, which
     attracted my attention; he made a beautiful curve, like the bending
     of a fountain, when it has reached its height, and then fell in a
     straight stiff line, licking the dust.

     "It was providential that I hit him where I did, for my master told
     me it was the only place that I could have killed him on so
     suddenly. He told me that he was the most venomous snake in the
     country, and that, had I not broken his neck as I did, either the
     children or myself would have been killed. His bite is attended
     with swelling and blackness of the body, and when the sun goes down
     death ensues. How merciful that the dear children had passed by him
     without provoking an attack! The whole of that night I did nothing
     but lie and think of this event, and thank God for my deliverance.

     "Some of the snakes which I have seen are full twelve feet long,
     and thicker than a stout man's arm. These are not venomous, but
     they would soon strangle a child. Some of our workmen have had
     severe encounters with them.

     "I have collected a good many curiosities of this country, and have
     skinned the birds and smaller animals myself, and preserved their
     skins, as dear Doctor Stebbing directed me; and if I can once get a
     letter from England to assure me that I live in the memory of my
     friends, I will soon pack them off to my good and learned mistress.
     People laugh at me sometimes for giving the value of a quarter of
     an acre of land for the skin of a dead animal; but they know not
     the pleasure I derive from the joy of pleasing those I love.

     "Give my love to my aunt and the dear children, and for their
     sakes, as well as my own, let them see this long letter. It may
     teach them to be very thankful to God; then they will bless poor
     Margaret, their foster-mother, and feel glad that they are so
     beloved by one so far away from them.

     "This is a very hot country. In the summer, the ground actually
     scorches the feet whilst we walk upon it, and creates great
     blisters, especially where shoe-leather, which is very scarce and
     dear, does not protect the feet. In winter it is very cold. Not
     that there is any quantity of snow, but there are very white
     frosts, which penetrate to the inmost recesses of our chambers. It
     is much colder and hotter than it used to be, since the country is
     cleared of its shady woods, and is so much more open. It will be a
     very populous and improving country. Even within a year or two, the
     people seem to be more moral and domesticated than they were; but
     it is a terrible place for drunkards.

     "We want British clergymen; good men of real steady principles,
     such as you have in England. The governor orders the Bible to be
     read at stated times to the different gangs of convicts; but then
     it is a convict who can read better than the rest, and they make a
     joke of him! Oh! what a sin it is that so little provision should
     be made for that which would be the surest way to reform the
     convicts, and to preserve their souls alive! I pray continually for
     friends to help us.

     "The trees grow very fast in this country. A few pear-trees and
     apple-trees are getting up, and the vine flourishes wherever it is
     planted. The oak grows luxuriantly; peaches and apricots thrive;
     but gooseberries and currants do not seem to suit the soil. Money
     is very scarce. Copper coins are almost the value of silver, and
     gold is a thing that I seldom see. Those who trade with India or
     China are the only people in the colony who use it. Tea is dearer
     here than it is in Old England, though we are so much nearer to the
     countries where it is grown. It is a matter of luxurious indulgence
     which convicts and servants do not at present enjoy. The native
     flax of Norfolk Island is the finest which we can obtain. You must
     not suppose that we are badly off, though some commodities may be
     very dear; for this country will be, if the world stand, one of the
     richest on the face of the earth: oh that it may be one of the
     best! At present it is one of the worst, though improving.

     "Sarah, or, as she calls herself, Elizabeth Barker, and Elizabeth
     Killet, are both living. One is doing well; I regret to state the
     other does badly.

     "If the young man who brings this should write to you from London,
     send an answer to him directly. He intends to return and settle
     here. He is a good young man. Singularly enough, he returns to
     England to gratify his aged parents with a sight of himself, and
     intends to try and persuade one of his female cousins to come out
     with him.

     "Pray go to my dear Mrs. Cobbold, and tell her I long to hear of
     her and her family. The same of Dr. Stebbing. Be sure and direct
     your letters for me at Mrs. Palmer's Orphan Asylum, Port Jackson,
     Sydney. Let all your letters be left at Government House. Mrs.
     Palmer will take care of any letters for me. Pray God bless and
     keep you all, is the constant prayer of

                                "Your affectionate niece,
                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "To MR. WILLIAM LEADER,
                     "Brandiston, near Woodbridge, Suffolk,
                                                      "England."

By her next letter it appears that Margaret was housekeeper to a young
widower. After living there about one year, her principles were put to a
trial, under which any less firm and stable than hers would have
succumbed. The young widower, finding what a valuable person Margaret
was, resolved to marry her. He did not think it at all necessary to pay
court to one who he thought would feel herself honoured by the proposal;
and as he fully intended to make her the mistress of his establishment,
he at once said to her--

"Young woman, I am resolved to marry you, and make you mistress of my
house at Richmond Hill. You need not trouble yourself to make any
preparations. I will see the Rev. Mr. Johnson, the chaplain, and
to-morrow you shall be mistress of my establishment."

Startled as Margaret was by this wholly unexpected offer, and by the
terms in which it was couched, she hesitated not a moment in her reply.

"I have no intention, sir, whatever," said she, "to marry any one, but
most certainly should not think of marrying you. I was sent here by your
relative, Mrs. Palmer, in the capacity of your servant, and I am willing
to fulfil the duties of that situation; but I should act with great
duplicity towards my mistress, if, without either yourself or me holding
any conversation with her upon the subject, I were to marry you. But, to
be candid with you at once, sir, I tell you I have no intention to
marry, and I will not comply with your demands in this respect."

As may be supposed, the young man was not a little astonished; but all
he said was--

"Then, if you do not, you may go back to Mrs. Palmer, and say I sent
you."

This was quite enough for Margaret, who immediately packed up her few
treasures, and started off for Sydney; and her kind friend, Mrs. Palmer,
who was equally astonished and pleased at her conduct, received her
again in a more confidential capacity.

One thing poor Margaret had deeply to regret about this time, and it
occasioned her many tears of unaffected sorrow. She had, with
persevering care, and at serious cost, collected a great many
curiosities, seeds of plants, shells, fossils, minerals, skins of birds
and lesser animals, all which she had treasured up with the most lively
hope that they would one day reach her dear mistress in England. She
packed them in a strong box, and paid a man to carry them for her to
Mrs. Palmer's, at Sydney; but they never arrived. The man to whom they
had been entrusted broke open the box, sold the contents to a settler,
and invented a plausible tale of his being robbed by some bushmen.

The name of the gentleman who made Margaret the offer of marriage, above
referred to, was Mr. John Poinder. He died about two years afterwards,
but left his aunt, Mrs. Palmer, sole executrix of his property, and
commended his children to her care. Margaret then returned to Richmond
Hill, to superintend the affairs of the house and the management of the
children, until they should be sent to school.

It may be here mentioned as one of those singular coincidences to which
Margaret Catchpole's life had been subjected, that not only on this
occasion of her absence from the Asylum, but on the only other occasion
that she had ever been absent from it, Mr. John Barry visited the
institution, stayed there some time, and left it, without receiving the
smallest intimation that it was, or had been, the residence of the woman
on whom his affections had been fixed from the first moment he beheld
her, and had never swerved up to the period of which we write; and the
subsequent events which we have to record render this coincidence still
more remarkable.




CHAPTER XXX

REPENTANCE AND AMENDMENT


Before Margaret left Sydney the second time for Richmond Hill, she had
the inexpressible delight of receiving a ship-chest from England,
containing letters and presents from her beloved mistress and friends.
The good Mrs. Palmer was requested to be present at the opening of the
chest; and never, never did the eager school-boy unpack his parcel from
home with more intense delight than this poor young woman did the box
from England.

But her first interest was directed towards the packet of letters which
the box contained; and, until she had devoured the contents of _them_,
all else was a matter of comparative indifference to her. There were
letters from her uncle and aunt Leader, from Dr. Stebbing, from several
of her fellow-servants at the Cliff; but above all, in Margaret's
estimation, there were letters from her dear mistress--the excellent
lady of the Cliff--to whose kindness she owed and felt such lasting
gratitude.

The reader need not be troubled with a description of the numerous
articles of wearing apparel which the box contained; nor is it needful
to do more than mention that, besides the larger objects, there was an
inner case, containing combs, thimbles, needles, netting needles and
pins, knitting needles, pins, threads, papers of Dutch tape, of Indian
cotton, of coarse threads, pincushions, scissors, knives, and all sorts
of those stores which are so precious to a housewife, when at a distance
from the ordinary sources where they are to be procured.

Poor Margaret could neither eat nor drink till she had devoured the
contents of her letters. She wept so much during their perusal, that she
was forced to ask Mrs. Palmer to read them to her. This she did with
most sincere pleasure, for they afforded her own good heart instruction
as well as gratification. The letters written to Margaret were such as
would have gratified any intellectual and benevolent mind. They were
much admired by all who read them, but by none more than by the faithful
creature to whom they were directed.

The following letter was addressed by Margaret Catchpole to Mrs.
Cobbold, shortly after the receipt of the box of treasures just alluded
to:--

                                                  "October 18th, 1807.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "With the purest pleasure I again seize an opportunity to write to
     you. I feel it my duty to do so, as you are my dearest friend upon
     earth. Sincerely do I thank God for your health and happiness, and
     for that of all your good family. I hope and trust in God that I
     shall soon hear from you again, for it is my greatest comfort in
     this distant land. Oh, my dear lady, how grieved I am to tell you
     that there are so many depraved creatures in this country! I have
     been robbed of all my collection of curiosities, which I had been
     saving up, according to your wishes, and which I intended to have
     sent you by the next ship. I am sure you would have thought them
     valuable, as they were all so perfect, and the birds in such good
     order, skinned, and dried, and perfumed. I will endeavour to
     collect them again; but I am so sorry, when I had collected so
     many, and had such great pleasure in them, that I should lose them
     all through the artful conduct of wicked men!

     "But I will soon be at work again for you. I have no greater joy
     than to be waiting upon you; and everything I get, which I think
     will be valuable to you, gives me increased satisfaction. You can
     scarcely believe what happiness I experience in devoting any
     portion of my time to your service. You are never out of my
     thoughts, and always in my prayers. My ideas turn toward you from
     every place, and in almost everything I see. When I think of the
     troubles and trials you must have, with eighteen children around
     you, I wonder you can at all think of me. But, dear lady, I do feel
     such an interest about you and your family, that I am thankful
     whenever you name any of them; and I was so delighted with your
     description of them all! Always tell me about them. I sincerely
     desire to know how Miss Anne is, and Miss Harriet, and Miss Sophia.

     "Have you any knowledge, my dear lady, of Governor Bligh? Alas! I
     have lost a good friend in Governor King. I do think that if a
     petition were presented to him in my behalf, so well known as I am
     to the late governor, something might be done for me. Every one
     tells me that he says my conduct has been so uniformly consistent
     and good that I deserve a reward. But it requires friends near the
     fountain of mercy to make its stream flow towards such as I. I
     should be almost ready to die with joy if a pardon were to come to
     me, with permission to return to England. I would then gladly come,
     and live and die in your service.

     "Since I last wrote to you, I have been living again with Mrs.
     Palmer. I sent you, by the ship _Buffalo_, a small case, containing
     the skins of the rarest birds found in this country, together with
     an opossum, of a dark colour, and very fierce; also a species of
     rat, which very much resembles a diminutive hyena. You will find
     two large, magnificent birds, called here the mountain pheasant;
     they are only like our English bird in size. The plume of feathers
     in the tail of the cock bird would form the most graceful ornament
     for a queen's head-dress. Two noble feathers, somewhat like a
     peacock's, only more brilliant and various in their colours,
     surrounded by the most glittering silver lines of curving feathers,
     fine as the prairie grass, and sparkling like the waves of the
     ocean, ornament the tail of the male bird, whilst the female is
     only remarkable for the elegance of her shape, and not for the
     beauty of her plumage.

     "In my opinion, this bird is the peafowl of this country, and not a
     pheasant. Early in the morning, I have seen him spring from the
     thickest brushwood, and wing his arrow-like flight to the tallest
     tree, and there he appears to mimic the notes of the various
     songsters around him. But the most beautiful attitude that I once
     saw him in beats everything I ever beheld of what men term
     politeness. I have heard and have read of delicate attentions paid
     to our sex by men of noble and generous dispositions; but I
     scarcely ever heard of such devoted attention as I one day
     witnessed in this noble bird towards his mate. I saw her sitting in
     the heat of the meridian sun upon her nest, and the cock bird
     seated near her, with his tail expanded, like a bower overshadowing
     her; and, as the sun moved, so did he turn his elegant parasol to
     guard her from his rays. Now and then he turned his bright eye to
     see if she was comfortable, and she answered his inquiry with a
     gentle note and rustle of her feathers.

     "Was not this a sight calculated to teach us all gentleness? Dear
     lady, as I looked upon it, the tears came warmly down my cheeks, as
     I thought of your good husband and yourself; and I dreamed of your
     writing a poem upon this subject, and reading it to the young
     ladies in the school-room. I had often wondered what use the tail
     of this bird could be to him. If this be one of its general uses,
     surely it is truly ornamental and useful. I hope these birds will
     come safe to hand. Captain Brooks of the _Buffalo_, promised me
     faithfully that he would himself forward them into Suffolk. The
     thought that they may reach you and give you pleasure will make me
     happy for many a long day. Owing to the late floods, every thing is
     become very dear: pork, 2_s._; beef and mutton, 2_s._ 3_d._; soft
     sugar, 6_s._ and 8_s._; tea, £1 10_s._ per pound; a bushel of
     wheat, £1 5_s._; printed cotton, 10_s._ to 12_s._ per yard; shoes,
     for females, 13_s._ per pair. Scarcely any linen cloth to be had.
     Newspapers, of any date, 1_s._ a-piece.

     "But your chest, just now arrived, contains so many things of
     value, that my good Mrs. Palmer has at once proposed that I should
     at once open a little shop at Richmond Hill. I wrote word, in my
     uncle's letter, or in my last to you, about my offer of marriage,
     but the gentleman is since dead, and has left his property to the
     management of Mrs. Palmer. She says I shall have a cottage of my
     own, with land attached to it, and begin business for myself. You
     know not, dear lady, how valuable all those things are which you
     have sent to me. But your letters, and those of Mrs. Sleorgin--oh,
     what a comfort they have been to me!

     "I had been very ill before their arrival. About eight months ago,
     I took a long journey, for Mrs. Palmer, to arrange something about
     Mr. Poinder's children. I walked a distance of thirty miles, and
     over-exerted and heated myself very much, so that my body threw out
     large blisters, just as if I had been burnt with small coals, and I
     was so swelled out that I thought I should have lost my life. I was
     under the care of a Mr. Mason, a very clever surgeon; and Mrs.
     Palmer was very kind and attentive to me. Blessing be to God! I
     recovered; but I am still very subject to cold and inflammation. I
     am not permitted to go near the fire.

     "I am to go to Richmond Hill as soon as I can, which will be very
     soon. I will write to you again when I am settled there. Only let
     me thank you, as I ought, for your great goodness to one so
     unworthy of it. If I should prosper, so as to get enough to keep
     myself from starving in my old days, how shall I bless God for
     raising me up such a friend as you have been to me!

     "Mrs. Palmer says she is very sorry to part with me, but she wishes
     to serve me. She is so good to me! She was so pleased to find I was
     so respected by such friends as the ladies who wrote to me. She
     said she never read such beautiful letters as yours and good Mrs.
     Sleorgin's, and asked me to let her take a copy of them. She had a
     great desire to publish them in the Sydney paper, as she thought
     they would do so much good to others as well as to myself. She
     blessed your spirit, and desired me to say, that she considered me
     worthy of all the favour which your generous hand had bestowed upon
     me. This was her saying; but it is not my opinion, though I may say
     I wish I was worthy. She desired me to say, that if you should see
     Sir William Blizzard, a physician in London, he would tell you all
     about her. She has promised to do all she can to obtain my
     restoration to society. If I could once return to my own native
     land, what a happy woman I should be! You add much to my comfort
     here; for whenever I have a few moments' spare time, I am sure to
     be seeking for seeds, shells, insects, or curiosities of any kind;
     and the thought of whom I am serving makes me feel very happy.
     Thank God! I keep myself free from all men. I have formed no
     acquaintance with any man; and I may sincerely confess to you, my
     dear lady, that my early attachment and deep-felt disappointment
     have deadened the feelings of my heart to any further matrimonial
     speculations. I do not think that any man in the colony could
     persuade me to marry. My dear Mrs. Palmer has often spoken to me on
     the subject, and I have never concealed the fact, that to my first
     attachment I owe my present abode in this colony as a convict. I am
     wise enough now to see my own follies, and I pray to God for His
     forgiveness. In this colony there are few that remain single from
     choice, old or young. Girls of fifteen years become mothers before
     they are able to take care of themselves; and I may state it as a
     curious fact, that very many whom you would suppose too old to be
     mothers, have young families increasing around them.

     "Vegetation in this clime is very abundant; but there are some
     fearful drawbacks to our reaping its fruits. We may have a good
     crop of grain on the ground to-day, and to-morrow it may be all cut
     down by a hail-storm, or destroyed by a blight, or swept away by a
     flood. On Monday last, the 16th of this month, a hail-storm passed
     over this place, and cut down the wheat just as it was in full
     blossom. The stones which fell from the clouds were as big as
     pigeons' eggs, and you may imagine the mischief which ensued. Great
     numbers of fowls and small cattle were killed. The harvest will be
     about six weeks hence, and will be a lamentably deficient crop. Now
     begins our hot season. We dread the attacks of ophthalmia, as the
     surgeons call it; we call it commonly the blight in our eyes. We
     can find no remedy for it but patience. In one day our eyelids are
     so swelled that we cannot see. With some it lasts a week, with
     others a month, according to the state of the constitution of the
     sufferer. It is a very irritating and painful disease, and none are
     such dreadful sufferers as those who most deserve it, the habitual
     drunkards, of which class I regret to state there are too many in
     this country.

     "The natives are much more tractable than they used to be, and not
     so savage and uncivilized. They will work but little; I can get
     from them, however, the most rare skins of wild animals, such as
     the settlers have not patience to pursue. They boast that the white
     man is made for drudgery, and the black for liberty. He can roam
     through his native woods and subsist without labour, whilst he
     supposes that we enjoy no freedom. They have not left off their
     barbarous habit of fighting and killing each other for a public
     exhibition. I remember that you used to make the young ladies read
     of the tournaments in the reign of Elizabeth, and how the knights
     sometimes killed each other in this way. Surely those ancestors of
     the English had some such spirit as these free blacks of Australia
     in this day. These people form a stately circle, and contend most
     skilfully and magnanimously, by fixed and settled rules of combat;
     and I assure you, dear lady, that their deportment, at such times,
     would be no discredit to the most gallant knights of Europe.
     Gallantry towards their females, however, is at a very low ebb;
     yet, for the honour of the sex, they take no delight in these
     pageants of blood and murder. In this respect, degraded as they are
     in other things, they are not so bad as some were in the ages of
     chivalry.

     "It will not much interest you to know of our farming here, but
     some of your friends may like to hear a word about it, though from
     such an ignorant being as myself. The price of farming stock is
     very high: a sow sells for £10; a ewe for £7; a milch-goat, £3
     10_s._; a cow from £60 to £70; a good horse from £100 to £150. But
     things will not continue in this state many years, for this is a
     most prolific land. You will be more glad to hear of our great
     variety of botanical plants. My good lady, Mrs. Palmer, has
     promised that her friend, Mr. Mason, who is a good botanist, shall
     affix the proper names to each of the specimens which I send.

     "Honoured madam, give my duty to Mrs. Sleorgin, and say how happy I
     am to hear from her, and am glad that she approves of my conduct
     and pursuits. I love her good advice, and endeavour to keep it. I
     am so sorry that I was robbed of all my first treasures for you. My
     tears, however, would not bring them back again. I will try again.
     Give my duty to dear Doctor Stebbing. Oh that I could see him with
     his dog and gun, upon some of our plains, or beating in the bush of
     this country! I would get him to kill me many a beautiful bird to
     enrich your collection. Give my duty to his daughter. Is poor old
     Robinson Crusoe alive? and is Jack Whatcheer? Alas! their memory
     brings back painful recollections. So, my dear lady, hoping to hear
     from you again, accept the love and duty of your humble and
     constant servant,

                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "To J. COBBOLD, ESQ., Cliff, Ipswich."

From this letter it appears that Margaret was then upon the eve of
leaving Sydney for her cottage at Richmond Hill, some forty or fifty
miles up the country. There were a small village and store-rooms on the
banks of the river, and Margaret rented a small house and about twenty
acres of land of her friend Mrs. Palmer, at a very moderate price. Part
of her house was formed into a shop, in which all her little stock in
trade was placed and her little capital invested. The goods which were
sent her from England formed a valuable assortment; and she began by
offering for sale small portions of her general stock, so that her
customers might have the same articles upon another application. Her
house was situated in a very beautiful spot, commanding an extensive
view over a well-watered plain, with the ever-blue mountains in the
distance.

Margaret remained at Richmond Hill, as her own independent mistress, for
five years. About two years after her residence at this place she wrote
again to her mistress, and sent a small drawing of her cottage, which
was taken by one of Mrs. Palmer's friends for this very purpose.

The mountain pheasants, which she speaks of in the following letter,
duly arrived by the _Buffalo_. They were splendid specimens, and were in
a very perfect state. They were preserved in the author's family for
many years, and may now be seen at the public museum at Ipswich, in
company with many thousands of valuable specimens. The bird itself is
now become very scarce. A live specimen has never been brought to
England.[11]

                              "RICHMOND HILL, Oct. 8th, 1809.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "I take up my pen again with new and increased delight, to say that
     I duly received another box from you, which arrived at Sydney with
     everything in it, according to the inventory, quite safe. A
     thousand thanks for it, my dear lady, and all its valuable
     contents. It was three years last June since I sent you, according
     to your request, a number of our native productions. I had a cedar
     case made on purpose, strong and stoutly ironed. I was told that it
     would preserve the goods in a more perfect state than an oaken one;
     but as you say nothing about its arrival in your letter, I fear that
     it is lost.

     "I sent it on board the _Buffalo_, the ship in which Governor King
     left the colony. It may, perhaps, yet reach you. I hope it will.
     There were many of our Sydney newspapers in it, and a host of
     birds' skins, weapons and knives, and curiosities, which I obtained
     from the natives near the Blue Mountains. I can see a great part of
     the chain from my chamber-window. Mrs. Palmer undertook to see the
     case forwarded to you.

     "This is the second great collection I have made for you; and I
     shall not, dear lady, forward any more until I hear of the safe
     arrival of the last, it is so very disheartening to find all my
     labour and love thrown away. Oh! how I wish that I could be
     permitted to bring a cargo home for you! I would part with
     everything I have most gladly for such a purpose, but I fear it
     will never be; and sometimes my poor heart feels broken, as I sit
     alone, pondering over all my hope and fears.

     "My dear landlady, Mrs. Palmer, has given me such a nice drawing of
     my cottage and the surrounding country for you! I shall send it;
     and I hope you will not think me presumptuous if I ask for one of
     the dear, dear Cliff, as I know, my dear lady, that you can so
     easily do one for me. If one of the young ladies would be so kind
     as to copy it, then I could give Mrs. Palmer one by way of return.
     Yours shall hang over my chimney-place; and when I look at it I
     shall think of those happy days which I spent there with you for my
     friend and mistress.

     "Ah! dear lady, when I was learning so many good lessons under your
     eye, little did I think that I should reap the profit thereof in a
     foreign land. Your word of approbation was a sort of foretaste of
     that which, I hope and trust, we shall both rejoice to hear, 'Well
     done, good and faithful servant!'

     "Dear lady, I am very contented, and am getting on well, but we
     have all had severe misfortune in this district: first, by the
     floods; secondly, by fire; and thirdly, by such a hurricane as
     levelled whole acres of timber-trees of enormous size. We were
     afraid to remain indoors lest our houses should fall on our heads;
     and out of doors we could hardly stand at all. Great trees swept by
     us as if they had been straws.

     "The flood in the month of May distressed us very much; but that on
     the 31st of July and the 1st of August, the days after the high
     wind, was dreadful. It was the greatest ever experienced by any of
     the settlers, though the natives speak of one which covered all the
     plain from the mountains, and was deeper than our church is high.
     The one I have so lately witnessed went over the tops of the houses
     on the plain; and many poor creatures were on their chimneys crying
     out for mercy, and for boats to go to them. It was shocking to hear
     their cries, and it made me feel so wretched at not being able to
     relieve them. It was very dangerous to approach them, for sometimes
     the eddies were so strong round their houses that boats were swept
     away, or swamped in the attempt. I saw one boat completely sunk by
     a tree falling upon it, just as it was passing; and had not another
     boat been near to take the sufferers off the boughs upon which they
     had climbed, they must all have perished.

     "One man, of the name of Thomas Lacey, and his wife and family,
     were carried away in a barn. They got upon the mow, and broke a
     hole through the thatch. I saw them, dear creatures, holding up
     their hands to heaven as they passed us on the sweeping flood, and
     imploring our help. It made my spirit rise within me; and I thought
     how God had made me instrumental in saving life in former days, and
     I could not resist the impulse of that which at first the people
     called my madness. I called to some men who were standing near a
     boat moored to the bank, and urged them to go with me to the
     rescue, but they would none of them stir. I took two long
     linen-lines, and tied them together, and requested the people on
     the bank to assist me, for I was determined to go alone if they
     would not go with me.

     "I jumped into the boat, and then the men were ashamed, and took
     their oars, and said they would go without me; but no, that I was
     determined they should not do; so the man slackened the rope, as we
     were carried by the stream towards the barn, which had fortunately
     grounded upon the stump of some large tree which had collected a
     quantity of earth so as to form a bank near it. We had hard work to
     get up towards the smooth-water side of the barn; but the men kept
     the boat close to the side by pushing against the trunk of the
     tree; and I stood up at the head of the boat, and received the dear
     children into my arms. They were all taken from the thatch, and we
     launched again into the eddies.

     "Had it not been for the line, we should have been sent down the
     stream like an arrow from a bow. All our fear was lest the line
     should break, and if it had we could never have rowed up the
     stream. Thanks be to the providential mercy of God, we were all
     hauled safe to land.

     "Oh! how the dear children did cling to me! They told me that they
     saw great alligators come up and look at them; but, poor things!
     their terrible situation would make them magnify a floating tree
     into an alligator. Horses, cows, sheep, and all kinds of animals,
     were hurried along the waters to the sea. I wonder whence all this
     body of fresh water can come from! We had no previous rains, and
     yet thousands and thousands of acres were covered ten, fifteen, and
     twenty feet deep with these floods.

     "I brought Mr. Lacey's family to my own house. You know, my dear
     lady, how fond I am of children. I take care of them, and they
     assist me, until their father shall have got another habitation to
     take them to. Some poor creatures expired just as help reached
     them. They got on to houses, barns, stacks, and trees, and were
     often swept off all these resting-places. Many persons were
     drowned; many lost all their property. We were all fearful at one
     time that we should be swallowed up. Part of the hill on which my
     cottage stands began to cave away, and has left a cliff several
     feet high for a long distance. I was very near losing my own life;
     for I was standing on the verge of the hill when a part of my own
     field close by my feet caved in, and was swept away by the flood.
     It seemed to melt away like sugar in a cup; but, God be praised! I
     just escaped falling with it. You may believe that it terrified me.

     "I have about twenty acres of land from my dear friend, Mrs.
     Palmer, who sends me one man to help me in the cultivation of it.
     Some have lost all: my loss is estimated at about fifty pounds.
     Everything is now so dear in the colony that my little stock in my
     shop is as much as doubled in its value; so that my loss in one way
     will be made up in another.

     "We are almost afraid of starvation on account of the many thousand
     bushels of Indian corn carried away by the flood. This corn, mixed
     with a little wheat, makes most excellent bread. You may imagine,
     dear lady, how we suffer, when I state that most of the wheat then
     in the ground was completely rooted up and carried away like
     sea-weed. All manner of grain has become very dear. Government has
     issued a certain quantity for each sufferer for seed-corn.

     "Clothing of all kinds is very scarce; but whilst I am writing,
     news has just arrived that a ship has providentially come into port
     laden with a vast supply, so that it will soon be the cheapest
     thing we can get. I should have done great things this year but for
     the flood; but I have every reason to be thankful for that which is
     left for me.

     "My prayers, dear lady, are always for your happiness, and for the
     good of all your dear family. Pray God that I may have the comfort
     to hear from you again! It is the comfort of heaven to me to hear
     that you and yours are well. Give my dutiful thanks to that dear
     lady, Mrs. Sleorgin, for the handsome present of books which she
     has sent me, and for the letter of good advice which accompanied
     it. Assure her, dear madam, that I endeavour to follow her advice
     every day. How thankful ought I to be to God that I have such dear
     friends who care for me!

     "My health at times is not good, and I am still very thin. Tell Dr.
     Stebbing that I walk every day farther than the space between his
     house and Nacton Street. God bless him! I have got several packages
     of curiosities for him. The greatest pleasure I have in this
     country is the hope of hearing from you, dear lady. I shall feed
     upon this hope for the next twelve months; and I assure you, when
     your letters do arrive, I am just as delighted as a child would be
     to hear from an affectionate parent.

     "Give my love and duty to my master, and all the young people who
     may chance to know my name, and ever believe me to be

                                "Your affectionate servant,
                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "JOHN COBBOLD, ESQ., Cliff, Ipswich."

The last letter received from Margaret _Catchpole_ is also dated from
Richmond Hill. It breathes the same affectionate attachment and anxiety,
and is given here as worthy of the same attention as the former ones:--

                               "RICHMOND HILL, Sept. 1st, 1811.

     "HONOURED MADAM,

     "On the 8th of August of this year, 1811, I received my cedar case
     that Captain Prichard should have brought. It is almost two years
     ago since he landed the troops at Sydney. Mrs. Palmer, my
     ever-constant friend, took charge of it for me, until I was enabled
     to go down myself. When I received tidings of its arrival, I set
     off from my cottage, and walked the whole way, leaving the eldest
     child I took from the flood to take care of my house. It is full
     fifty miles from Richmond Hill to Sydney. Mrs. Palmer could not
     think where the case could have been all that time. But your
     letter, my dear madam, has set all our minds easy upon the subject.

     "At first I thought it was the case, and all the things I sent you,
     come back again. But bless you, dear lady, for thinking of me! I
     was greatly rejoiced when I found that you had received the birds
     quite safe, and that they gave you such pleasure. Everything that
     you have sent me is quite safe, and so delightfully packed, that I
     could see your own dear handiwork in the whole process. All are, I
     assure you, very acceptable to me; and many thousand thanks do I
     give for them. I never can feel sufficiently thankful to heaven and
     you.

     "How deeply do I feel the loss of dear Mrs. Sleorgin! With God's
     help, I will endeavour to follow her good advice to the day of my
     own departure, and then I shall meet her again. My loss is, I am
     persuaded, her own gain. Her blessings have come here, and will be
     fruitful to her own good soul in a happier world. I am very fond of
     reading those good books which she has sent me, and I shall always
     be reminded of the benevolent donor.

     "Dear lady, I am grieved to hear of the death of poor Miss Anne
     that was. She was always the most meek-spirited of all the young
     ladies. Master Rowland was always my favourite. He was born in
     those happy days when I lived with you; and he, too, is gone. Your
     letter conveys very anxious tidings; and though joyful to me to see
     your dear handwriting, yet I grieve to find that you have been so
     ill. Oh! if there was anything in this country that would do you
     good, however difficult it might be to be obtained, I would not
     cease using all my efforts until I had got it for you. If I can
     find anything at any time which may be new to you, and please your
     dear, good mind, anything you have not heard of before, what
     pleasure it will be to me!

     "Oh! never can I be dutiful or grateful enough to you for your
     goodness to me. God preserve you long to be a blessing to your dear
     family and friends!

     "I am ashamed, my dear madam, to send this hasty scribble into your
     hands, but the ship is about to sail directly, and I am hard
     pressed for time. I am pleased to think that you got my long list
     of dried plants and birds. I am sorry the insects were not better
     fastened in the case; I will attend particularly to your
     instructions about them for the future. I am living alone, as I was
     when I last wrote you, and am getting on well, in a very honest and
     independent way of life. People wonder why I do not marry. I cannot
     forget my late trials, troubles, and horrors, and I dread forming
     any acquaintance with any man. I was happy before such notions
     entered my mind, and I have been comparatively happy since I have
     had no more notions of the same sort. So I am single and free.

     "The cap you have sent me, which you say is a great favourite of
     yours, I put on last evening, and drank my tea in it, with some
     tears of reflection. My heart was so full, to think that the work
     of your own hands, and that which had graced your own head, should
     cover such an unworthy one as mine, it made me feel humble and
     sorrowful, as well as joyful and thankful. I must hastily conclude
     this letter, as the messenger calls for any ship letters for
     Sydney. May the blessings and thanks of your grateful servant reach
     your dear heart, from the soul of

                                "Your ever devoted servant,
                                        "MARGARET CATCHPOLE.

     "J. COBBOLD, ESQ., Cliff, Ipswich."

It is now time that our attention should be recalled to one whose
conduct has, we trust, already gained him a place in the reader's
esteem, and who after all must be looked upon as the true hero of our
simple story. John Barry (now most worthy to have that old English title
of Esquire attached to his name, as being the highest which was
acknowledged in the settlement, under the governor) had, as the reader
will remember, arrived at New South Wales, and settled at Liberty
Plains. He was among the earliest free settlers in the land, and was a
man of such firmness and steadiness of character, of such integrity and
perseverance, that he succeeded far beyond his own most sanguine
expectations, and established for himself such a character for probity,
sagacity, and general worth, that he was consulted upon all the most
interesting concerns of the colony. He it was who suggested to Governor
King the first idea of establishing the "Female Orphan Asylum," and
proposed attaching one hundred acres of land as a marriage portion for
the children. He it was who laid the second stone of St. John's Church,
Paramatta. He built the first free-trader that was ever launched from
Port Jackson. That he prospered it is needless to declare, because
industry and integrity, with activity of mind, intelligence, and
sincerity, must prosper in any place. He was a merchant as well as a
great corn grower: he was also, as we have before stated, the government
contractor for land. He never caballed with any one party against
another, for the sake of increasing the price of land, but honestly, in
a straight-forward way, stated the price per acre, the quantities that
parties might have, and the money expected in a given time. He had sold
for the government many thousand acres of the finest tract of land,
which bordered upon the river Hawkesbury, and retained a portion for
himself at Windsor, by the Green Hills, for which he strictly paid the
highest price that was then given for land in that district.

His residence, called Windsor Lodge, was situated on a very commanding
spot upon the south bank of the river. At a short distance from the
water he had built very large granaries, capable of holding an immense
quantity of grain, and this spot became the great corn-mart of the
country; the grain was thence transported to the coast, and supplied
every port connected with the colony. The Hawkesbury is a noble river,
particularly opposite to Windsor Lodge, the house, or rather mansion, of
the owner of the Green Hills around. If real worth and talent, if
public and private benevolence, with the most expansive views of men and
things, together with acts of such virtue and dignity as speak the
spirit of true nobility, could be found in any one, they existed in the
mind and heart of that youth, who left the shores of old England a
simple, single-minded Suffolk farmer's son, to become a man of wealth
and goodness in a distant land.

It is true that no chivalric deed of arms signalized his career: he was
an enterprising, but a peaceful man; he could boast no long line of
ancestry higher or more exalted than himself. His parents were good,
honest, and virtuous people, and their son bore the same character, but
with the possession of superior information; and may we not, in some
measure, trace the origin of all this man's virtues and good qualities
to that passion which still, as it was in the olden times, is the parent
and prompter of all that is great and noble, all that is gentle; all, in
short, that distinguishes man from the brutes that perish? Love dwelt, a
pure and holy flame, in the breast of this young man; and change of
scene, change of condition, increase of knowledge, of wealth, and of
circumstances--in short, circumstances which would have changed almost
any other being--changed not him.

It may seem strange to many that Mr. Barry should have been so long a
leading man in the colony, and in constant communication with England,
and never have heard of the fate of Margaret Catchpole. But when they
understand that all notice of her career had been studiously excluded
from the correspondence of his friends in England; and, moreover, that
convicts of all classes, when they came to Botany Bay, were sent to the
northward to be employed on the government stores, and that the
Hawkesbury was devoted principally to free labourers and settlers, and
that the line of demarcation between convict and free settler was
extremely strict, their surprise will in a great degree cease.

Beloved and respected by all, as John Barry was, the wonder with all
was that he never married. With every comfort around him, with health
and cheerfulness, a goodly person, great repute, and wealth scarcely
equalled by any one in the colony, he still remained a lone man; and but
that he evinced a kind, benevolent, and friendly disposition towards all
their sex, the females would have set him down as a cold ascetic. He was
far from being this kind of person. Love was the ruling principle of his
life; and though he had himself suffered so much from disappointment
that he never had the slightest inclination to address his affection to
another, yet he encouraged social and domestic virtues in others, and
advised many not to follow his bachelor example. His own sisters he had
portioned off handsomely; and one of his greatest relaxations was to
visit their abodes and to delight in their happiness and prosperity.

In the year 1811, Mr. John Barry was visited with a deep affliction, in
the loss of one of his sisters, who died of fever, leaving a husband and
a young family of seven children. But how surely does good spring out of
seeming evil! Fraught as this event was with the most poignant grief to
John Barry, it was, nevertheless, the ultimate cause of the consummation
of all his hopes, and the completion of that happiness which he had so
richly earned. Deeply desiring the welfare of his sister's children, and
seeing the forlorn condition to which they were reduced by the death of
their excellent mother, he at once acted with an energy and discretion
which the afflicted husband could not command. He sought to obtain as
speedily as possible some respectable person to take charge of the
family, and he remembered that Mrs. Palmer had mentioned to him a
valuable person, whom she had sent to Richmond Hill, to take charge of
some motherless children related to herself. He therefore went down to
Sydney immediately, and obtained an interview with that lady at the
Orphan Asylum.

"I think, my dear madam, you mentioned to me, two or three years ago,
that you lost a relative who left a young family, and that you sent a
confidential female to superintend and take care of the children?"

"I did, sir, and a most valuable treasure she has always been to me. She
lived with the husband of my relative for two years as housekeeper and
general superintendent of his establishment. He is, however, since
dead."

"And she----"

"Is still living at Richmond Hill, but perfectly independent. It was a
curious and unprecedented fact in this country, for a young woman in her
situation to refuse the hand of the very man whose family she managed;
but she did so, and to her honour and credit; for the love she bore me
she left his service and returned to live with me. I was, as you may
conceive, greatly pleased with her, and took her still more closely into
my confidence. Two years after this the husband of my late relative
died, leaving his whole property at Richmond Hill to me, for the benefit
of his children, and in case of their death, to me and my heirs for
ever. The poor children, always sickly, died in this house, and the
property is now let to a most respectable tenant. I reserved twenty
acres and a cottage for this young woman, who had acted so generously;
and I do not scruple to tell you, that though she pays a nominal rent to
me for the cottage and land, yet I have always put that rent into the
bank in her name, with the full intention of leaving her the property I
mention."

"I am very much obliged to you for the information which you give me.
You have heard that I have lost my youngest sister Maria. She leaves a
disconsolate husband with seven young children, the eldest only eight
years of age. My object in asking about this person was to secure her as
guardian of these dear children; and the manner in which you have spoken
of her convinces me that she would be eligible and valuable, if she were
but at liberty to come. Do you think you could persuade her to undertake
the duty? I would send a man to farm her land for her, and devote the
whole rent to her remuneration."

"I am afraid she would not leave her present home and occupation. She
keeps a small store and lives entirely by herself, except that a little
girl, whose life she saved from the great flood, assists her. You would
have been very much pleased with her had you witnessed her brave conduct
in risking her own life in the attempt to save a Mr. Lacey and his
family, who on that day were carried away in their barn. She put to
shame the spirits of several men who stood looking on the waters, and
refused to go to the assistance of those poor creatures. She would
positively have gone alone, and entered the boat with the full
determination to do so, if they refused to accompany her. They were at
length fairly shamed into going along with her to the spot where the
barn had grounded, and thus actually rescued the whole family from their
perilous situation. I wonder you did not see the account of it in the
_Sydney Gazette_."

"You interest me very much in this person," said Mr. Barry; "she must be
a very extraordinary woman."

"She is, indeed. But this is not the most extraordinary feat of her
life. She is a convict, and was transported to this country for stealing
a horse, and riding it a distance of seventy miles in one night."

"But how came you to know her?"

"She was recommended to me by Captain Sumpter, who conveyed her in his
ship to this country, and gave her an excellent character. She was so
highly mentioned in his letters, that I took her into the establishment
at the Female Orphan Asylum, and found her all that I could desire, and
much more than I could have had any reason to expect."

"Do you know what her character was in England?"

"Her whole history has been laid before me. And this I can
conscientiously declare, that she was guilty of but one great error,
which betrayed her into the commission of an offence for which she was
sent to this country. Her besetting sin was misplaced affection, an
unaccountable attachment to an unworthy man. She stole a horse from her
master to meet this lover in London, and was sentenced to death for so
doing. She was reprieved, owing to her previous good character, and
would never have been sent to this country, had she not been persuaded
by the same man to break out of prison. She effected her escape from
gaol, and would have got clear out of the country, but for the activity
of a young man (by-the-by, a namesake of yours) in the coastguard, who
shot her lover in a skirmish on the sea-shore; and then she was retaken,
tried a second time, and a second time condemned to death; but her
sentence was commuted to transportation for life."

On looking on the countenance of Mr. Barry at this moment, Mrs. Palmer
was surprised to see it deadly pale.

"You are ill, sir," she exclaimed; "pray let me send for assistance."

"No, no, I thank you; I shall be better presently. A little faintness
came over me, doubtless from the interest I feel in the history you have
related to me."

With great effort Mr. Barry commanded himself, as he said in a trembling
voice, "And the name of this singular person is----"

"Margaret Catchpole," replied Mrs. Palmer, as he seemed to pause.

Overpowered by emotion of the most conflicting kind, Mr. Barry was
completely unmanned. Accustomed for so long a time to smother his
affections, he now found his heart bursting with the fullness of agony
at finding the being so highly recommended to him, and one whom he had
never ceased to love--_a convict_.

"Oh, my respected friend!" he exclaimed, "I loved that woman long before
I came to this country. I love her still--I confess I love her now; I
cannot, I do not, from all I know of her, and from all you tell me,
believe her to be an abandoned character;--but she is a convict."

"Alas! she is," replied Mrs. Palmer. "You astonish, you amaze me, Mr.
Barry. Does she know your situation in this country?"

"I should think not, for I have had no information of hers up to this
time. You must know that I would have brought her out to this country as
my wife, but she was then attached to another. That other, I fear, was
shot by my brother. He was a smuggler, and my brother was in the
preventive service. She may not retain any feeling towards me but
respect."

"I have never heard her mention your name, nor had I the slightest hint
of these circumstances. I do not think she dreams of your existence.
This is a large country, Mr. Barry, and if your name and fame in it have
ever reached her ear, depend upon it she does not think that you are the
person who once addressed her. But if she should hear it, I can tell you
that she is so truly humble a creature, that she would think it
presumption even to fancy that you could still love her. She is the
meekest and most affectionate creature I ever knew."

"I can believe it, if she is anything like what I remember of her; she
is warm-hearted, honest, open, and sincere, but uneducated."

"She is all the first-mentioned, but far, very far from being the last.
In some things she is as well informed as ourselves, and in the best of
all books she is really well read. She daily reads and understands her
Bible. Her mistress, copies of whose letters I can show you, instructed
her with her own children; and I can assure you, that in nothing but the
want of station is she inferior to the best of her sex."

After the first struggles of his emotion were over, Mr. Barry made a
complete confidante of Mrs. Palmer, and at once revealed to her the
state of his own feelings respecting Margaret; and she fully explained
to him what had been the excellent conduct of the object of his
affection since her residence in that country. After hearing her
statement, and appearing to consider within himself for a brief space,
he said--

"I think I have sufficient interest with the governor to obtain her free
pardon. If you can furnish me with the numbers of the _Sydney Gazette_
in which she is mentioned, I will urge upon that humane man the policy
of rewarding such an example as that which she set in rescuing the lives
of Mr. Lacey and his family from the flood. I will take your
recommendation, also, to the governor, and see what may be done. In the
meantime, I beg you to take the earliest opportunity of mentioning my
name to her in any manner you may think best. My mind is made up. If I
procure her pardon, and she will listen to me favourably, I will marry
her. You may tell her so, if you find her favourably disposed towards
me."

That very day the good Mrs. Palmer wrote the following note to Margaret
Catchpole:--

                                      "SYDNEY, Sept. 21, 1811.

     "MY GOOD MARGARET,

     "I desire to see you at Sydney, and have sent a conveyance for you
     that you may not be oppressed with the journey. I have something
     particular to communicate, but shall not tell you by letter what it
     is, that you may not be over-anxious. I shall simply call it a
     matter of most momentous business, which concerns both you and me,
     and also a third person. Your attendance here will greatly
     facilitate the settlement of the affair. And in the meantime,
     believe me,

                                "Your sincere friend,
                                        "ELIZA PALMER.

     "To MARGARET CATCHPOLE, Richmond Hill."

It was indeed a great piece of news which this kind-hearted woman had to
communicate to her husband. Still he was not so surprised as she
expected him to have been.

"I have always thought, from his manner, that Mr. Barry had some strong
and secret attachment in England. I fancied that he was in love with
some damsel of high birth in his native country; and truly do I think
him worthy of any lady's hand. I little dreamed, however, of his real
position. He is a good man, and will make a most excellent member of our
highest society, and will exalt any woman he may take to be wife. But
how do you think Margaret is affected towards him?"

"It is that very thing I wish to know. I cannot really tell. She has
been as great an exclusive in her way as he has been in his; and I
confess that my present opinion is, that she will never marry."

"She would really be to blame if she did not. I think this match would
tend to soothe that growing distance and disrespect which exists between
the emancipated and the free settlers. At all events, it is highly
honourable and noble in our excellent friend."

"I think she would be wrong to refuse such an offer. But she has shown
herself so independent, that unless a real affection should exist, I
feel persuaded that she will live at Richmond Hill in preference to
Windsor Lodge. I expect her here to-morrow, as I have sent the chaise
for her."

Mr. Barry repaired to the governor's house and had a long interview with
him. He had some general business to speak of and several public matters
to arrange; but he made haste to come to the case of a female convict,
Margaret Catchpole, which he laid before the governor with such zeal,
that the latter could not help observing the deep interest he took in
her behalf.

"Has your honour seen the nature of the offence for which she was
transported, or ever heard of the motive which prompted it? I have
brought testimony sufficient to corroborate my account of her. I have
the letters of recommendation for good conduct during her voyage to this
country. I have the highest character to give of her all the time she
has been with Mrs. Palmer, and a particular instance of personal courage
and self-devotion, in saving the lives of a whole family in the late
dreadful flood. Her present situation is so highly respectable, and
exhibits such an instance of moral and religious influence triumphant
over the dangers of a degraded position, that, when I heard of it, I
could not fail to lay it before your honour."

"And a most admirable advocate would you have made at the bar, Mr.
Barry. You have pleaded this young woman's case with such fervour, that
positively, but for your well-known character in the colony, I should
suspect you had some private interest in obtaining her pardon. I do
think, however, that the case is a very proper one for merciful
consideration, and highly deserving of the exercise of that prerogative
which the government at home has attached to my power; and I shall
certainly grant a free pardon. But, without any intention of being too
inquisitive, may I candidly tell you, that from the animated manner in
which you have spoken of the virtues of this said female, I am induced
to ask, why you have taken such a peculiarly personal interest in her
favour?"

"I will honestly confess at once that I ask it upon the most
self-interested grounds possible: I intend to offer her my hand."

The governor looked all astonishment. "What? Do I really hear it, or is
it a dream? You, Mr. Barry, the highest, and wealthiest, and most
prudent bachelor in the settlement, one who might return to England and
be one of her wealthiest esquires; and here, enjoying more reputation,
with less responsibility, than the governor--you about to form a
matrimonial alliance with----"

The governor paused; he found his own eloquence carrying him too far; he
considered the character of the man before him, knew the excellence of
his principles and his heart, and dreaded to wound his generous soul; he
changed his tone, but not the earnestness of his appeal.

"Have you well weighed this matter, Mr. Barry? Have you consulted with
your friends around you? You are not the man to be caught by outward
appearances, nor to be smitten by passing beauty without some qualities
of domestic happiness, arising from temper, mind, character, and
disposition. How long has this attachment been in existence?"

"From my youth, your honour: I have not yet seen her since that happy
time when she was a free woman in my native land, enjoying that honest
liberty which is the pride and glory of England's virtuous daughters of
every station in the land. I was then in her own condition of life. We
had both to earn our bread by the labour of our hands; we both respected
each other: would I could say that we had both loved each other! I
should not like to see her again until I can look upon her as a free
woman, and it is in your power to make her that happy being, upon whom I
may look, as I once did, with the warmest affection."

"I ask no more, Mr. Barry, I ask no more. You have been an enigma to
many of us; it is now solved. It gives me real pleasure to oblige you,
and in such a case as this the best feelings of my heart are abounding
for your happiness. Her freedom is granted. To whom shall I commit the
pardon?"

"Will you permit me to take it?"

"Most gladly."

The governor's secretary was immediately summoned, and the form of
pardon duly signed, sealed, and delivered to the joyful hand of Mr. John
Barry.

"And now," said the governor, "permit me to say that we shall at all
times be happy to receive you at Sydney; and in any way in which you can
find my countenance and support serviceable, I shall always be ready to
give them."

A cordial shake of the hand was mutually exchanged, and Mr. Barry
returned that day to Windsor Lodge one of the happiest, as far as hope
and good deeds can make a man so, on this changing earth.

He had communicated his success to Mrs. Palmer before he left Sydney.
The green hills of Hawkesbury never looked so bright in his eye before,
his house never so pleasant.

His servants saw an evident change in his manner, from the anguish of
mourning for the loss of a sister, to what they could not quite
comprehend; a state of liveliness they had never before witnessed in
him. Their master never appeared so interested about the house, the
rooms, the garden, and the green lawn. He was most unusually moved; he
gave orders for the preparation of his house to receive his
brother-in-law's children, to the great amazement of his female
domestics, who could not conceive how a bachelor would manage such a
family.

He did not breathe a word of his intention to any of his domestics; but
every one observed a great change in his behaviour, which all his
habitual quietude could not entirely conceal.

He wandered down to his favourite spot upon the river, and indulged in a
reverie of imaginary bliss, which, to say the truth, was more real with
him than with many thousands who fancy themselves in love.

Margaret arrived at Sydney on the day following the receipt of Mrs.
Palmer's letter. She was a little excited at the tone of that epistle,
but much surprised at being received in a manner to which she had never
been accustomed. Margaret saw in a moment, from Mrs. Palmer's manner,
that she had something to communicate of a very different kind to what
she had before mentioned, and at once said--

"I perceive, my dear lady, that you have something to say to me which
concerns me more than you wish to let me see it does, and yet you cannot
conceal it. You need not be afraid to tell me; good or bad, I am
prepared for it, but suspense is the most painful."

"The news I have to tell you then is good; to be at once declared--it is
your free pardon!"

"This is news indeed, my dearest lady; almost too good news--it comes so
unlooked for; forgive my tears." Margaret wept for joy.

"Shall I again see dear old England? shall I again see my dear friends,
my mistress, my uncle, aunt, and family? Oh! how shall I ever repay your
kindness? Oh! what can I say to you for your goodness? On my knees, I
thank God, my good friend, and say, God be praised for His mercies, and
bless you, the instrument thereof!"

"You may thank God; but you must not bless me, Margaret, for I am only
the bearer of the news. I have not even got the pardon in my possession;
but I have seen it. It is signed by the governor, and I know that you
are free."

"Oh! thanks, dear lady, thanks!--but is it not to Mr. Palmer that I am
indebted? You must have had something to do with it."

"Nothing farther than the giving you a just character to the governor by
the hand of a gentleman, who has interceded with him, and has pleaded
your cause successfully."

"Who is the gentleman? Do I know him?"

"Yes, you may know him when you see him. He read the account of your
saving the family of the Laceys in the flood; he listened with attention
to your former history: he does not live in Sydney, but at Windsor, on
the Hawkesbury; yet, from his interest with the governor, he obtained
your pardon."

"Bless the dear gentleman! How shall I ever be grateful enough to him?
But you say I know him?"

"I say I think you will. I know you did once know him, but you have not
seen him for many years."

"Who can it be, dear lady? You do not mean my brother Charles?"

"No."

"Who then can it be? Not my former master, or any of his family?"

"No, Margaret; I must be plainer with you. Do you remember a young man
of the name of Barry?"

"John Barry! Yes, I do. What of him? He went to Canada."

"No, he did not. He came to this country, has lived in it many years,
and has prospered greatly. He is in the confidence of the governor. He
accidentally discovered you were in the country. He it was--yes, he it
was--who went that very hour to the governor, and I have no doubt asked
it as a personal favour to himself that you should be pardoned. What say
you to such a man?"

"All that I can say is to bless him with a most grateful heart. Oh! dear
lady, he saved my life once, and now he gives me liberty! He was a good
young man; too good for such as me to think upon, though he once would
have had me think more of him. I had forgotten all but his kindness,
which I never can forget; and now it overwhelms me with astonishment. Is
he married, and settled in this country?"

"He is settled, but not married. He has been a prosperous man, and is as
benevolent as he is rich; but he never married, at which we have all
wondered."

This declaration made Margaret blush; a deep crimson flush passed over
her cheeks, and was succeeded by extreme paleness. Her heart heaved
convulsively, a faintness and dizziness came upon her, and she would
really have fallen had she not been supported by the kind attentions of
her benefactress.

"He has kept his word! Oh, Mrs. Palmer! I never thought to see him
again. I mistook the country he left me for. I have often thought of his
goodness to me in former days. I am now indebted to him for double
life!"

"Margaret, what if I tell you that for you only has he kept himself
single?"

"There was a time when he might and did think of me; but that time must
be gone by."

"I tell you, he loves you still."

"Impossible! Oh, if he does!--but it is impossible! Madam, this is all a
dream!"

"It is a dream, Margaret, from which you will shortly awake, as he is in
the house at this moment to present himself with the governor's pardon!"

"Dear lady, pray be present with me; I know not how to meet him!"

The door just then opened, and in came Mr. Barry, with the governor's
pardon in his hand. He approached Margaret, as she clung to Mrs. Palmer,
agitated beyond measure. She regarded him with more solemn feelings than
she did the judge who condemned her twice to death. She dropped upon her
knees, and hid her face before her deliverer. He lifted her up and
seated her, and, in the language of gentleness and tenderness, addressed
her thus:--

"Margaret, I have brought you a free pardon from the governor. Need I
remind you that God has mercifully sent me before you in this instance
to be your friend? To Him I know you will give all the thanks and
praises of a grateful heart."

"To Him I do first, sir; and to you, as his instrument, in the next
place. I am afraid to look upon you, and I am unworthy to be looked upon
by you. I am a----"

"You need not tell me, Margaret, what you have been. I know all. Think
not of what you were, but what you are. You are no longer a convict; you
are no longer under the ban of disgrace; you are no longer under the
sentence of the offended laws of man; you are now a free subject; and if
your fellow-creatures do not all forgive you, they cannot themselves
hope for forgiveness. You are at liberty to settle wherever you please."

"Oh! dear sir; and to you I owe all this! What will they say to you in
England, when I again embrace my dear friends there, and bless you for
the liberty thus granted me?"

"Margaret, hear me again. Remember, when I last saw you, I told you then
what I dreaded, if you refused to come out to this country with me. How
true those fears were, you can now judge. You made a choice then which
gave me anguish to be surpassed only by the present moment. You speak
now of returning to England. You have got your pardon, and are at
liberty so to do. It may seem ungenerous to me, at such a moment, to
urge your stay; but hear now my opinion and advice, and give them the
weight only of your calm judgement. If you return to England, take my
word for it you will not be happy. You will never be as happy as you may
be here. I speak this with feelings as much alive to your interest now
as they were when I last parted with you. I will suppose you returned.
Your own good heart makes you imagine that every one would be as glad to
see you there as you would truly be to see them. Your own heart deceives
you. I have known those who so bitterly lamented their return to
England, that they have come again to settle in this country, and have
offended those friends who would have respected them had they remained
here. When at a distance they felt much for them; but when they came
near to them, the pride of society made them ashamed of those who had
been convicts. It may be that some would be glad to see you; your good
mistress, your uncle and aunt: but circumstances might prevent their
being able to do you any great service. Your former mistress has a large
family, your uncle the same; you have no independence to live upon
there. The eye of envy would be upon you if you had wealth, and
detraction would be busy with your name. People would talk of your sins,
but would never value you for your integrity. You would probably soon
wish yourself in this country again, where your rising character would
be looked upon with respect, and all the past be forgiven, and in time
forgotten. Here you would have an established character: there you would
always be thought to have a dubious one. Besides all this, you are here
prospering. You can have the great gratification of relieving the
necessities of your aged relatives, and of obliging your best friends.
You would, believe me, be looked upon by them with far greater respect
and esteem than if you were nearer to them. Think, Margaret, of what I
now state, and divest yourself of that too great idea of happiness in
England. You are at liberty to go; but you will enjoy far greater
liberty if you stay in this country."

"What you say, sir, may be true in some respects; but I think I should
die happy if I once more saw my dear friends and relatives."

"God forbid that I should not approve your feeling! I, too, have a
father, and mother, and brothers in England, but I hear from them
continually, and they rejoice in my welfare. I love them dearly as they
do me. Two sisters have come out to me, and both have married and
settled in the country. One I have lost, who has left a husband and
seven children to lament her loss. I have strong ties, you see, in these
young people, to bind me to this country, for they look up to me as they
do to their father. But they are without female protection."

"If, my dear sir, I can be of any service to you or them for a term of
years, I shall feel it part of the happiness of that freedom you have
obtained for me to abide as long in this land. But I own that I still
feel that I should like to return one day to England. I am very grateful
for all your goodness, and shall ever bless you for the interest you
have taken in one so unworthy your favour."

"Margaret, I am deeply interested in these children. They have lost
their mother, my sister. Their aunt, now resident in the colony, has ten
children of her own, and it would not be fair that she should take seven
more into her house. The young man, now left a widower, is in such a
delicate state of health, and so disconsolate for the loss of his wife,
that I do not think he will be long amongst us. These circumstances made
me come to my good friend Mrs. Palmer for assistance and advice. Guess,
then, my astonishment to hear you recommended to me: you, above all
people in the world, whose presence I could have wished for, whose
gentleness I know, and who, if you will, can make both myself and all
these children happy."

"My dear sir, I stand in a very different position with regard to
yourself to what I formerly did. I do not forget that to your protecting
arm I owe the rescue of my life from the violence of one in whom my
misplaced confidence became my ruin and his own death. I never can
forget that to you I am a second time indebted for liberty, and that
which will sweeten the remainder of my days: the consciousness of being
restored, a pardoned penitent, to virtuous society. But I cannot forget
that I am still but little better than a slave: I am scarcely yet free.
I am not, as I was when you first offered me your hand and heart, upon
an equality with yourself. How then can you ask me to become your wife,
when there is such a disparity as must ever make me feel your slave? No,
generous and good man! I told you formerly that if Laud were dead I
might then find it in my heart to listen to your claims; but I never
thought that I should be in a situation so much beneath you as I am, so
very different to that which I once occupied."

"And do you think, Margaret, that I can ever forget that I was a
fellow-servant with you at the Priory Farm, upon the banks of the
Orwell? It was then I first made known to you the state of that heart
which, as I told you long ago, would never change towards you. You say
that our conditions are so very dissimilar: I see no great difference in
them; certainly no greater than when you lived at the cottage on the
heath and I was the miller's son. You are independent now. Your good
friend, Mrs. Palmer, has made you so, and will permit me to say, that
you have already an independence in this country far greater than ever
you could enjoy in England."

Margaret looked at Mrs. Palmer. That good woman at once confessed that
all the rent that Margaret had paid for the years she had been in the
farm was now placed in the Sydney bank, to her account, and quite at her
disposal. She added, that she had made over the estate she occupied at
Richmond Hill to her for ever.

What could Margaret now say? She found herself on the one hand made
free, through the intercession of a man who loved her, and on the other
she was made independent for life by a lady who had only known her in
her captivity, but who had respected and esteemed her. That lady now
thought it time to speak out.

"Margaret, do not think that I have given you anything more than what
you are strictly entitled to. Remember that, from a sense of justice
towards me, you refused the hand of a man who probably would have
settled all the estate upon you. But you chose to think yourself
unworthy of my kindness had you accepted his offer. You acted with great
discretion; and in settling this small portion upon you, I was guided by
a sense of justice and gratitude, which made me anxious to discharge a
just debt, and I do not consider that I have even given you as much as I
ought to have done."

"Indeed, you have, dear lady, and you have bound me to you for ever.
Have I, indeed, such dear friends in this country? Then do I feel it my
duty to remain in it, and I will learn to sigh no longer after that
place where I had so long hoped to live and die. You give me, however,
more credit for refusing the hand of Mr. Poinder than I deserve: I never
could have married a man who, in such an imperious manner, gave me to
understand his will. No; I was his servant, but not his slave. And any
woman who would obey the nod of a tyrant, to become his wife, could
never expect to enjoy any self-estimation afterwards. He told me his
intention of making me his wife in such an absolute way that I quite as
absolutely rejected him. I deserve no credit for this."

"Margaret," said Mr. Barry, "understand the offer I now make you. If you
are not totally indifferent to all mankind, and can accept the offer of
one whose earliest affections you commanded, then know that those
affections are as honest, and true, and faithful to you this day, as
they were when I first addressed you. Think me not so ungenerous as ever
to appeal to any sense of gratitude on your part. You cannot conceive
what unspeakable pleasure I have always thought it to serve you in any
way I might. You cannot tell how dead I have been to every hope but
that of being enabled to do good to others. This has been my purest
solace under your loss, Margaret; and if in daily remembrance of you I
have done thus much, what will not your presence always urge me to
perform?

"I sought a servant, a confidential kind of friend, to govern my
brother's household: I little thought that I should find the only person
I ever could or would make my wife. I offer you, then, myself and all my
possessions. I am willing to make over all I have, upon the contract
that you become the aunt of those dear children, and I know you too well
ever to doubt your kindness to them.

"As to your respectability, I have already declared to the governor my
full intention of offering you this hand. He has promised to recognize
you as my wife. Your friend here will not like you the less because you
are so nearly allied to me; and I will answer for all my relatives and
friends. None will ever scorn you, all will respect you, I will love
you. Say, then, will you live my respected wife at Windsor Lodge, or
will you still live alone at Richmond Hill?"

"It is you must choose," replied Margaret; "I cannot refuse. I never can
doubt you. I will endeavour to fulfil the station of a mother in that of
an aunt; and if my heart does not deceive me, I shall do my duty as an
honest wife."

After this explanation, it is needless, perhaps, to add that Margaret
Catchpole changed her name, and became the much-respected and beloved
wife of John Barry, Esq., of Windsor, by the Green Hills of Hawkesbury.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: The specimens in question may be seen distinguished by a
label attached to them with the following words:--

                      "MANURA SUPERBA.
                "LYRA, OR BOTANY BAY PHEASANT.

"These beautiful birds were sent to the late Mrs. Cobbold, of the Cliff,
by Margaret Catchpole, a female servant, who stole a coach-horse from
the late John Cobbold, Esq., and rode it up to London in one night. She
was in the act of selling the horse when she was taken. She was in man's
apparel. She was tried at Bury in 1797, and received sentence of death,
which sentence, owing to the entreaties of the prosecutor, was changed
to seven years' transportation; but breaking out of gaol, she was
afterwards transported for life.

"Presented to this Museum by R. K. Cobbold, Esq."]




CHAPTER XXXI

CONCLUSION


If true love and constancy are noble qualities in the heart of man, and
prompt him to deeds of generous philanthropy, they deserve to be
recorded and imitated from the example of John Barry. And if sincerity
and repentance be qualities worthy the charitable consideration of good
Christians, Margaret Catchpole's career in this life, and especially her
latter days, will not afford a bad example of the promise of "the life
that now is, and of that which is to come." The remaining history of
this singular individual was one of quiet calm, and yet benevolent
exertion in all good works of faith and love. She lived highly respected
in the situation to which her husband's good qualities and good fortune
had raised her. She lived a retired, though not a secluded life, on the
banks of the Hawkesbury, fulfilling the duties of her station as a good
wife, aunt, sister, and mother, in an exemplary manner. Charitable as
she was rich, she never thought she could do enough to relieve the
distresses of others.

Not many months after her marriage she received another chest of goods
from her benevolent mistress in England, and wrote her last epistle of
thanks, dated

                        "WINDSOR, HAWKESBURY, June 25th, 1812.

     "MY DEAR MADAM,

     "The contents of this letter will surprise you. I hope that I am
     not the less grateful for your goodness because God has blessed me
     with such abundance, that I no longer require that aid from England
     which has hitherto been such a blessing to me. Indeed, my dearest
     madam, my good and early friend, I am most grateful for all your
     past favours, though I do not wish to tax a generosity which I do
     not now, in the same manner, need. May Heaven bless your warm
     heart, which will glow with fervent praise to God when you read
     this letter from your former poor servant!

     "Everything that I could wish for, and, oh! how much more than I
     deserve, have I had granted to me in this place of probation! God
     grant I may not set my heart too much upon their value! Dearest
     lady, I have men-servants and maid-servants, horses and cattle,
     flocks and herds in abundance. I have clothing and furniture above
     what you can imagine, and a house wide enough to entertain in it
     all your numerous family. But, more than all this, I have an
     excellent husband, one whose constancy from his youth has been
     beyond the praise which I could find language to express.

     "You may remember what I once told you of a young man whom I had
     rejected for a less worthy one. He has proved his love for me in
     such a manner as I am sure could never have been seen in any but
     the most noble of his nature. He told me in England that he would
     never marry any other, and through years of industry and prosperity
     (and as I have every reason to believe he would have done to the
     last day of this life) has kept himself single on my account. Did
     you ever chance to hear of such a case as this? When I reflect upon
     it, as I often do, I find it more and more wonderful.

     "You must remember my telling you of Mr. John Barry's attachment to
     me. He left me when I lived at Nacton, and came out here among the
     earliest free settlers in the country, and has prospered beyond his
     utmost anticipations. He found me out here by accidental inquiries
     of my dear Mrs. Palmer, and obtained for me my free pardon. My
     wishes to return again to my native land became absorbed in the
     sense of duty and obligation to my benefactor, who, when he had
     obtained that pardon, gave me the option of sharing my life and
     freedom with him, or of being independent here or elsewhere. Noble
     generosity! Does it not win your heart? It won mine. I am his
     faithful wife: happy, happy, as the days are long. He is good,
     virtuous, amiable, and truly religious; constant in his love to God
     and man. I could fill many letters in speaking of his virtues; but
     I forget that you never saw him, though he lived upon the shores of
     the same river that you do.

     "He is very good to me, so that I want nothing more from England.
     How proud shall I be to send you now anything which this country
     produces!

     "Herewith I send you a sketch of my present beautiful abode, done
     by Mrs. Palmer. It will give you a slight idea of my situation. I
     send you also a present of various seeds, skins of animals (one of
     the ursine opossum), and dried plants, which I think will be
     valuable to you; and also some curious weapons and instruments of
     the natives, for my dear friend, Dr. Stebbing.

     "What a wonderful life has mine been! You only, my dear lady, know
     its reality. There may be others equally eventful; but how few are
     there who find such a place of unmerited repose as I have? My dear
     sister's words often recur to my mind when she told me whom I
     should not marry: I wonder if she ever thought of the one I have
     married. There are many very excellent people in this flourishing
     country. The governor and his family have received us, and have
     been very kind to me. My dear friend, Mrs. Palmer, is now staying
     in my house. She is my benefactress here, as you were in England.
     Oh! if I could but bring you both together, and could sit quietly
     listening to your conversation, it would be such an intellectual
     treat as few could more enjoy! She is, like yourself, very clever.
     I believe I should die happier if I could see your dear, loved face
     in this land; but if that never may be, nor I see old England
     again, then may Heaven bless you; and God bestow His brightest
     gifts of grace upon you and your children!

     "I am this moment engaged, and lay down my pen to give directions
     concerning the work in that most interesting of all female
     employments, preparing for the coming of a family of my own. Mrs.
     Palmer, who sees me writing these words, says, 'How astonished you
     will be!' You will rejoice in my happiness. I know you will.
     Forgive, dear lady, all my errors, both of the weakness of my head
     and heart. Give my love to all my dear friends. Any person coming
     to this country, with a recommendation from you to me, will find
     the warmest reception. In justice to my husband, I would forget
     what I have been, and I speak seldom of my past errors, though,
     before God, I never cease to lament and repent of them; and did I
     not know who 'died for the ungodly,' my grief for the past would be
     without consolation. Blessed faith, that teaches the contrite how
     to be comforted! Who can value Thee as he ought in this struggling
     state!

     "I can add but a few more words, and I do so with tears and
     trembling. It is not from pride of heart. Dear lady, you must judge
     of its propriety. I am likely to increase my family; and I would
     conceal from them, in future years, their mother's early history,
     at least those parts which are so unworthy to be mentioned. But I
     feel that my maiden name cannot be forgotten in your neighbourhood.
     Hundreds will speak of it when you and I shall be no more. Oh that
     it could be represented to the world in its proper light, as a
     warning to that portion of my countrywomen to which I belonged,
     that they never give way to their headstrong passions, lest they
     fall as I did! But 'the tender mercies of God are over all His
     works,' and I can never magnify that mercy too much, as it has been
     shown to me.

     "If, dear lady, as years increase, our correspondence should not be
     so frequent, because of my altered situation in this country, do
     not think me proud. Your feelings as a mother will point to the
     nature of my own. You would not have your children know your
     faults. Pardon this, perhaps, my greatest weakness.

     "Should you ever think fit, as you once hinted in your letter to
     me, to write my history, or should leave it to others to publish,
     you have my free permission at my decease, whenever that shall
     take place, so to do. But let my husband's name be concealed.
     Change it, change it to any other; not for his sake, for it is
     worthy to be written in golden characters, but for mine and my
     children's sake! And now, dear lady, farewell. God's peace be with
     you! and ever think of me as

                                "Your grateful and affectionate servant,
                                        "MARGARET BARRY."

So ends the correspondence of Margaret with her mistress. That lady
wrote one more letter to her, assuring her of her joy and thankfulness
at her providential settlement in the land of her adoption. She told her
that she had kept the early facts of her history in such order, that on
some future day they might perhaps be published, but that her wishes
should be strictly attended to, and her parental anxieties respected.
She took an affectionate leave of her in that last letter, promising not
to intrude anything of past obligation upon her notice, but leaving it
entirely to her own heart to recognize any friends of hers, from the
county of Suffolk, who might, either in military, naval, or civil
capacity, go out to Sydney. How delicately those wishes were observed,
some can well remember.

Margaret Barry lived many years at Windsor, greatly respected and
beloved. She had one son and two daughters, who received the best
education which England could afford, and returned to settle in their
native land. Among the foremost for intelligence, benevolence, activity,
and philanthropy, is the distinguished son of Margaret; and in the
future history of Australia he will bear no unimportant share in her
celebrity and greatness. The daughters are amiable and accomplished, and
have married gentlemen of the first respectability in the country.

After fifteen years of the tenderest and most uninterrupted domestic
comfort, Margaret had the severe affliction to undergo of losing her
devoted and excellent husband, who died September 9th, 1827, leaving the
bulk of his property at her disposal. She removed to Sydney in 1828,
where she was conspicuous only for the mildness of her manners, and the
unostentatious character of her habits of life.

She had a great desire that her son should settle in her native county
of Suffolk, and he came over to this country with that view; and when
the sale of Kentwell Hall took place, he was nearly the last bidder for
it. His resolution, however, seemed to fail him at the last moment, and
he did not become the purchaser of the estate. He stayed a year in
England, and then returned, with a determination not to settle in any
other country than his native one. He returned to close the eyes of his
affectionate parent, who died September 10th, 1841, in the sixty-eighth
year of her age.




SUPPLEMENT

BY THE AUTHOR

A. D. 1858


Since the first publication of the _Life of Margaret Catchpole_, many
have been the correspondents who have addressed the author upon the
subject of her life and character. Many have been the inquiries made
concerning her, and many things, which the author never heard of her,
have since come to light. They would fill a volume. The author has no
intention of inflicting any further pain upon the sensitive minds of
some, who, in writing to him, have quite overlooked the idea that he,
the author, had any sensitiveness whatsoever. He has no intention of
reviving any feeling of the past, respecting what may or may not be mere
local descriptive scenic representation; but there are certain moral
representations which the author gave, both of her early respectability
and character, which he deems it but a mere act of common justice to her
memory to substantiate, and thus furnish the only defence which can ever
be in his power to make against those who accused him of wilful
misrepresentation. Though all the documents relating to this
extraordinary female are duly filed and preserved,--and her own letters
in her own handwriting have been transmitted for inspection to several
inquirers,--there are some facts which may be interesting as proof
positive of the assertions contained in the narrative. To a few of such
the author now refers the reader.

The first is a letter from the Reverend William Tilney Spurdens,
formerly head-master of the Grammar School at North Walsham, Norfolk; a
celebrated scholar, the translator of Longinus, the early and beloved
tutor and friend of the author. This gentleman had an uncle at
Brandiston in Suffolk, with whom he used to stay, and to that uncle and
to Peggy's aunt he refers in this letter.

                                "NORTH WALSHAM, 30th Oct. 1846.

     "MY DEAR FRIEND,

     "I cannot delay to put you in possession of my '_love-passages_'
     with your heroine, albeit, at this present writing, suffering much
     pain from asthma and chronic bronchitis, which are both aggravated
     by our foggy air for some days past.

     "In my early childhood I had an uncle, an aged widower with no
     family, who did me the favour of being very fond of me. He had one
     domestic in his house, and another out of it, the former a female,
     the latter a male. The former rejoiced in the name of Nanny, I
     suppose there was another postfixed to it, but of this I am not
     cognizant: but Nanny had a niece, or cousin, or something of the
     kind, named _Peggy Catchpole_; and whenever the old uncle's
     favourite paid him a visit, the maid's paid a visit to her,
     '_for_,' as Nanny used to say, '_it was so comfortable for the
     children, like; and the little dears helped to amuse one another_;'
     and so it was that Peg and I walked together, played together, and
     slept together.

     "I wish I could give you dates, which are the sinews of history,
     you know. There is one event which my mind connects very exactly
     with this period, and which will afford you one date. Peggy and her
     young swain were going on philandering at supper, at the time of
     the loss of the _Royal George_, at Spithead. The newspaper came in
     while my good relative was playing a hit at backgammon with his
     neighbour, the doctor, as was their frequent practice; and by dint
     of spelling, and a lift or two over hard words, I read to them the
     mournful narrative. For this I received sixpence, and laid it out
     in figs, of which Peg and her swain each ate so many as to make
     themselves ill.

     "Now all this would unquestionably have been forgotten, had it not
     been made fresh in the memory from Peggy's subsequent career.
     Whilst she was in Ipswich Gaol I made interest with the personage,
     then usually called '_Old Rip_,' to see her, intending to give her
     money. I must then have been a young man. She, however, would not
     know anything of me--in fact, '_cut me_:' and so I kept my money.
     But I afterwards learned that Ripshaw would not have permitted it
     to be given! '_And that's all._'

     "I am afraid that, with all the exuberance of your imagination, you
     would be puzzled to concoct a chapter out of this.

     "I am beginning to long for our young friend's visit in order to
     [] my introduction to your other heroine.

                    "Meanwhile I am,
                            "My dear Sir,
                                "Yours very truly,
                                        "W. T. SPURDENS."

There is no need to concoct a chapter out of this letter. It is the
genuine offering of a kind heart and clear head, and sufficiently
explains the purpose in view; viz. that Margaret was regarded in her
early career with respect and pure affection, by one who sought to
relieve her in her distress, and in a day of degradation and adversity
owned her as his early playmate, and would have ministered to her
necessity. Both, I trust, are now awaiting that final day when the cup
of cold water, given with a good heart for Christ's sake, shall meet
with a blessed reward.

The second letter is from a gentleman in Lincolnshire, a solicitor and
banker, and speaks to the career of that brother Edward who is mentioned
in the narrative.

                          "ALFORD, LINCOLNSHIRE, 10th Dec. 1846.

     "SIR,

     "I have lately read the _Life of Margaret Catchpole_, and was
     deeply interested in it. Her brother _Edward_ was several years in
     the preventive service in this neighbourhood, at
     Sutton-in-the-Marsh, about six miles hence, where he died and was
     buried a few years ago.

     "I often saw him in his rounds on the sea-coast, and have had
     conversations with him. He was rather a tall person, and of stern
     manners. I could readily obtain a copy of the inscription on his
     grave-stone, which refers to his former residence at Ipswich, and
     forward it to you, should you wish it. His widow, who was a Norwich
     person, still lives in this neighbourhood.

                            "I remain, Sir,
                                "Your very obedient servant,
                                        "HENRY T. BOURNE.

     "REV. RICH. COBBOLD,
       "Wortham Rectory,
           "Diss, Norfolk.

     "P.S. Since writing the above I have heard that Mr. Edward
     Catchpole became a decidedly religious character for the last few
     years of his life, and died a very happy death."

From the same gentleman is the memoir here inserted of Margaret's
brother Edward, obtained from an authenticated source, the substance of
which is given in a note, page 294.

"Mr. Edward Catchpole was born near Ipswich in Suffolk, in the year
1778. Of his early days we know but little; he was led to choose a
sea-faring life in preference to any other line of business; he served
an apprenticeship on board a merchant ship. Some time afterwards he
became mate on board the _Argus_ Revenue Cutter, of Harwich. Whilst in
this service, a most interesting circumstance occurred, which deserves
to be noticed. Sept. 18th, 1807, the _Argus_ succeeded in rescuing an
English coal-brig from the _Star_, French privateer. Having put some men
on board the brig, elated with success, they go in pursuit of the
privateer. They soon fall in with her, and a sharp engagement ensues,
and at 10 o'clock at night the captor was captured; they came to close
quarters, and, owing to the great disparity in numbers, the privateer
having eighty-six men, and the cutter only twenty-seven, they were
boarded, overpowered, taken into a French port, and sent to prison. Mr.
C. was about seven years in a French prison. Frequently his expectations
were raised by hopes of liberation, an exchange of prisoners was often
talked of, but still they were kept in bondage and suspense. A
favourable opportunity occurring, he made his escape, and came over to
England. His arrival at home was so sudden and unexpected to his wife,
that he seemed to her almost like one come from the dead. Subsequently
he was appointed chief officer in the Coastguards; his last station was
at Sutton-in-the-Marsh, in the county of Lincoln; there his health
failed, and there he finished his earthly course, and made a good end.
His conversion to God was most satisfactory. In his affliction the Lord
graciously supported him, he had a hope full of immortality, and his end
was peace. He died on the 17th of December, 1836. He changed mortality
for life. He was interred in the churchyard at Sutton, and a stone has
been placed at the head of his grave, with the following inscription:

                            IN MEMORY OF
                          EDWARD CATCHPOLE,
                         A NATIVE OF IPSWICH,
                      IN THE COUNTY OF SUFFOLK,
                    AND LATE CHIEF OFFICER OF THE
                            COAST GUARD
                      STATIONED AT THIS PLACE,
                  WHO DIED DECEMBER THE 17TH, 1836,
                           AGED 58 YEARS.

As some correspondents have actually accused the author of producing
before the public a fictitious character, and in terms of unmeasured
reprobation told him plainly that they understood there never was such a
person as Margaret Catchpole in existence, the author here gives a copy
of the document signed by her judge, the Lord Chief Baron Macdonald.
This document was not obtained until after the publication of the work.
The original is preserved in the Corporation Chest at Ipswich.

     Copy of a Certificate from the Right Honourable Lord Chief Baron
     Macdonald, to exempt from all parish offices, for having prosecuted
     Margaret Catchpole at Bury Assizes, Aug. 11th, 1797.

     "These are to certify, That at the delivery of the Gaol of our Lord
     the King, of the County of Suffolk, holden at Bury St. Edmunds, in
     the County aforesaid, on Wednesday, the ninth day of August
     instant, before me, whose name is hereunto subscribed, and other
     his Majesty's Justices, assigned to deliver the aforesaid Gaol of
     the Prisoners, therein being Margaret Catchpole, late of the Parish
     of St. Margaret, in the Town of Ipswich, in the County aforesaid,
     single woman, convicted of feloniously stealing a Gelding, of the
     price of twenty pounds, of the goods and chattels of John Cobbold,
     on the twenty-third day of May last, at the Parish aforesaid, in
     the Town and County aforesaid; and that the said John Cobbold was
     the person who did apprehend and take the said Margaret Catchpole,
     and did prosecute her, so apprehended and taken, until she was
     convicted of the Felony. Therefore, in pursuance of an Act of
     Parliament made in the tenth and eleventh years of the reign of his
     late Majesty king William the Third, _intituled_, An Act for the
     better apprehending, prosecuting, and punishing of felons that
     commit burglary, housebreaking, or robbery, in shops, warehouses,
     coachhouses, or stables, or that steal horses; I do hereby further
     certify, that by virtue hereof and of the said Act of Parliament,
     he, the said John Cobbold, shall and may be, and is hereby,
     discharged of and from all manner of Parish Offices within the
     Parish of St. Margaret, in the Town of Ipswich aforesaid, in the
     County aforesaid.

     "In testimony whereof I have hereunto set my hand this eleventh day
     of August, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and
     ninety-seven.

                                        "AR. MACDONALD."

The author now approaches a most painful, and yet he trusts a
pleasurable, duty. Painful, because his own mind and that of others have
been excessively hurt by a misconception of the identity of that
Margaret Catchpole whose life he has written, and pleasurable, because
of the opportunity afforded him of contradicting the fact so often
asserted, that Mrs. Reibey of New Town, Sydney, was the identical
Margaret Catchpole.

The relatives and friends of that highly-esteemed lady, lately deceased,
will be glad to read a letter from the late Bishop of Australia, written
to one of his clergy, the Rev. H. D. D. Sparling, of Appin, New South
Wales, the good Bishop himself, as well as hundreds of others, having
been deceived in that identity from a strange but very simple mistake,
viz. that of two places bearing the same name in England, though one be
in Suffolk,--Bury, and the other in Lancashire--_Bury_.

Hence originated the grand mistake concerning _Mrs. Reibey_ who
emigrated from _Bury_ in Lancashire, and Margaret Catchpole, who was
tried at Bury in Suffolk. It appears from original letters in the
possession of the author, and from Mrs. Reibey's herself, that Suffolk
was totally unknown to her. She was very justly hurt at presents being
sent to her, under the idea that she was that poor girl, whose
correspondence and gratitude to her benefactress, the late Mrs. Cobbold
of Holywells, showed her to be honest and exemplary. She was justly
hurt, because therein was the supposition that she had been tried and
convicted as a felon, and was transported for horse-stealing.

The friends and relatives of Mrs. Reibey, as well as all Christians,
will be glad to read the amiable Bishop's letter; and even the author,
whom it condemns, gives it to the public, because his own heart is in
full accordance with the charity therein breathed; and he is even more
anxious to turn the hearts of that lady's relatives in gratitude to that
spirit and testimony which this good man gives of all the branches of
their respectable family.

Notwithstanding the remonstrance conveyed in the Bishop's letter,
concerning the publication of the Life of the real Margaret Catchpole,
over which the author had _then_ no more control than he now has, he
cannot help here expressing his gratitude to all those who, viewing the
narrative in the light of truth, and intention on the author's part to
convey a moral and spiritual warning and lesson in an easy and
instructive style, have written to him letters of approbation.

The Bishop's letter, whilst it will animate the hearts of Mrs. Reibey's
real relatives, will also speak equally kindly to the descendants of the
real Margaret Catchpole, and will be the author's best proof of his
desire to convey the Bishop's love to them along with his own. The
wildest olive, when grafted into the true stem, must be productive of
good fruit.

Mrs. Reibey, a high-spirited, romantic girl, from the neighbourhood of
Bury in Lancashire, of good family, with friends and relatives of
England's noblest merchants, conceived the idea that she should be
happier in our distant colony than in the Mother Country. She left
England very young, and, like many of her sex, succeeded in proving that
her enterprising spirit was not unrewarded. She lived respected by her
family and friends in England, and although mistaken by the good Bishop
himself, yet noble testimony is borne to the excellence of her
character. She was a clever woman of business, and of a noble
disposition. The author can only hope, that all her relatives and
friends who have written to him will thus accept at his hands the
apology for all the mistakes that have arisen; whilst, at the same time,
he rejoices to keep concealed the name of Margaret's real descendants
until they shall themselves divulge it.

                                    "SYDNEY, 18th April, 1845.

     "REVEREND SIR,

     "I was very much vexed to learn from your letter of the 15th inst.
     the course which it is intended to be taken with reference to the
     publication named in the Prospectus which you forwarded, and which
     is now returned. My opinion entirely coincides with yours and Mr.
     Hossall's as to the inexpediency of such an undertaking. It would
     be cruel even to the individual, whoever it may be, to have early
     offences thus placed permanently on record as a memorial of shame
     and cause of annoyance to her younger and perfectly innocent
     connexions. Indeed, if the party meant be the one whom allusions in
     your letter lead me to conjecture, they who would suffer in their
     feelings are not only innocent, but praiseworthy in a very high
     degree for exertions in the cause of religion, and of the Church of
     England, scarcely to be paralleled by any instance I have ever
     known. The Bishop of Tasmania would regret equally with myself,
     perhaps even more, that any pain should be occasioned to parties so
     worthy of respect. If my conjecture be right, I happened once to be
     in circumstances which placed other members of the same family
     (young females just attaining to womanhood) under my close and
     special attention, and I can truly testify the impression by me
     was, that they were in character and deportment altogether
     unexceptionable, and in habits of devotion very exemplary. Others I
     know, are regarded by the clergyman of their parish as among the
     best instructed and sober-minded of the communicants in his church.

     "My acquaintance with Mr. Cobbold is not such as I think would
     justify my taking any step which would so carry the air of
     remonstrance as that of my writing to him would.

     "It appears to me that as you have, through various circumstances,
     been brought into correspondence with him, it would be more proper
     that you should make a statement of the true facts, and of the view
     which is taken of his proposal. At the same time, if you think it
     would strengthen your case if he were acquainted with my
     sentiments, I can have no objection to your communicating them; as
     all my statements to you upon the subject have been in accordance
     with them, and expressive of my satisfaction at witnessing the
     exemplary conduct of the individuals whom I suppose to be alluded
     to.

                            "I remain,
                                "Reverend Sir,
                                    "Your very faithful servant,
                                        "W. G. AUSTRALIA.

     "REV. H. D. D. SPARLING,
       "Parsonage, Appin."

Mrs. Reibey is no more, and the author acknowledges the receipt of very
satisfactory letters from her and her relatives, all conveying their
free pardon for any unintentional pain, which might have been given to
an innocent and praiseworthy individual, but assuredly they did not
endure, and never could endure, the pangs which the author himself
received at the very thought of giving pain to others.

He ever did admire the conduct of his mother towards her erring servant,
believing it to be as magnanimous and Christian-like as that of the
Bishop towards her supposed relatives, and though circumstances
compelled the prosecution in question, and the very prevalence of the
crime at the time made it too notorious to be disregarded,--the years of
intercourse, and passing presents to and fro, between the prosecutor and
the prisoner, made too deep an impression upon the young heart of the
author to be obliterated even in these his old days.

He cannot help thinking that the removal of the _card_ which was placed
at the foot of the "Manura Superba," the first Lyra Pheasants sent from
that country to England, as a present from Margaret Catchpole to her
mistress, and presented by Mrs. Cobbold's eldest son to the Ipswich
Museum, simply because it stated the fact of her transportation, was,
however kind in intention, a mistake in point of judgement. The object
of all records of crime ought to be taken as warnings to others; though
the simple fact of such birds being sent as a grateful present from a
once poor transport, proves that the heart was not totally devoid of
grace, and that we should ourselves be more glad to see such a noble
token of love, in the days of poverty, than the most splendid monuments
of accumulated wealth.

One duty only remains for the author, and that is the last and very
simple one of gratitude to the memory of those who loved his mother, as
well as to those living who were subscribers to the monument placed in
the Tower Church, Ipswich, to her memory. That duty is simply to record
the inscription engraved upon it; and the author does so, because, as
years increase, so much the brighter in his mind is the memory of the
talents and virtues of the departed.

                  AS A PUBLIC TESTIMONY OF RESPECT
               FOR EXALTED TALENTS AND UNWEARIED EXERTION
                IN THE CAUSE OF BENEVOLENCE AND CHARITY
                THIS MONUMENT IS ERECTED BY THE GENERAL
              CONCURRENCE OF AN EXTENSIVE CIRCLE OF FRIENDS
                          TO THE MEMORY OF

                          ELIZABETH COBBOLD

                THE BELOVED WIFE OF JOHN COBBOLD, ESQ.
                           OF HOLYWELLS
                   SHE DIED OCTOBER XVII, MDCCCXIV
                             AGED LIX

Rectory, Wortham, Oct. 21st, 1858.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

The intent of the corrections listed below is to restore the text to the
author's intent, as best as that can be surmised. Usually, a space is
left where a missing character should have appeared. Spelling varies and
has been retained, with the single exception noted below.

p. 108 ["]Why he has got"

p. 150 and be industrious[.]

p. 171 they treat me scurvily[?/!]

p. 264 Did you ever see a better shape[?]

p. 310 the escape of any prisoner from the g[oa/ao]l

p. 415 in order to [] my introduction: missing word

p. 417 and came over to England[,/.]

p. 420 Bishop[s'/'s]